A Fool's Errand
by President Luthor
Summary: As the new Robin Hood struggles with his role as Herne's Son, and growing affection for Marion, Gisburne is summoned to join the king's campaigns in France. The sheriff doesn't like it - which usually means trouble for all.
1. CH 1

BACKGROUND: Early in season three (the Jason Connery era). The merrie men have just accepted Robert as Herne's son. The sheriff and Gisburne know that the disowned Huntingdon is now 'Robin', who has Albion and possibly fancies a certain redhaired maiden. The King's herald returns to recruit Guy to serve in the wars in France ... to the sheriff's dismay.

PROLOGUE

Marion settled on an old tree stump near the encampment. Tuck was busily adding ingredients for their rabbit stew dinner.

"Rabbit stew again?" Will Scarlet grumbled. "Don't we have any venison?"

"This isn't the Sheriff's kitchen, Will," Tuck countered. "If you wanted venison, you should have gone out to find us some."

"Will's just lazy, Tuck!" Much grinned, and he narrowly avoided a box on the ears from Will. "Anyhow, I haven't seen any deer in this part of the woods in days!" Nasir appeared to be uninterested in dinner while he sharpened his throwing knives.

Robin,the former heir to the earldom of Huntingdon,quietly re-strung his bow. "Little John and I ran into some foresters yesterday. Perhaps they scared them off."

"Where is that big oaf anyway?" Will muttered.

"The village of Cornley," Marion replied. "He acquired a slightly tattered leather vest from one of the foresters, so he went to have it mended."

"Now, was the vest already tattered ..." Will began, "or did John do the tatterin' when he ambushed the forester?"

"The foresters were less than cooperative," Robin answered. "We encouraged them to do away with their armour, and lightened the load of their purses."

"And how did you manage that?" Marion challenged. Robin enjoyed the playful banter, not only with the other men, but especially with Marion. He had hoped that no one would notice his attraction to her,but Will had noticed. When Marion checked on Tuck's stew concoction, Will approached Robin.

"Don't pretend that you don't fancy her, because I know that you do," Will smirked.

"I ... I don't fancy her, Will!" Robin protested, half-heartedly.

"You're a terrible liar," Will replied. "Must be your noble upbringing."

"You didn't tell anyone of this,did you?" Robin inquired. Will enjoyed seeing Robin -- who was usually even-tempered -- become flustered.

"It ain't any of my business --" Will started again.

"You're right," Robin snapped. "It isn't."

"All I'm sayin' is ... she's still mournin' Loxley," he replied. "You might be Herne's Son 'n all, but that don't mean you get to claim her. We just don't want to see her get hurt, after all she's been through."

Robin observed Marion, as she gleefully tossed herbs and spices into Tuck's pot of stew. She was of noble blood -- a crusader's daughter -- but she seemed happier in this poor, leafy paradise. She was enchanting.

Little John returned with his mended leather vest, and an armful of food: a side of beef, potatoes and a skin of ale.

Much rushed towards him. "Little John, where'd you get all that food?"

Little John seemed truly excited about his meal. "They had a tiny tavern there. I was able to get all of this for a bargain. The tavern-keeper said if I bought all three of these ... that I'd pay a better price than if I bought them separately."

"You mean, as a combination meal?" Much blurted as he gnawed into some of the tavern beef.

"Don't eat now, Much!" Marion chastised. "Tuck has a wonderful rabbit stew for dinner!"

Little John shook his head. "Not another stew, Tuck! What makes this stew any different from the other stews you've made all this week?"

"What's different is that I helped to make it better!" Marion insisted. Robin saw an opportunity to make a good impression on her and was first in line for the stew.

"That sounds like a good enough reason for me," Robin stated. Behind him, Will rolled his eyes at the obvious ploy for Marion's favour.

"My lord," Marion curtsied mockingly. "It would be an honour." Robin turned to look at Will, who sighed at his silliness.

Be careful, his expression seemed to say. Marion's one of us, Will thought. We'd die for her at a moment's notice.

Don't hurt her, Huntingdon.

* * *

Miles away from Sherwood, the courtyard of Nottingham Castle echoed with the hoofsteps of a dozen, crimson-liveried horsemen. Robert de Rainault, Lord High Sheriff of Nottingham, had watched their arrival from the countryside when a sentry spotted them on the horizon. The lead horseman carried the royal arms of King John and the household pennant of Hubert de Giscard, the king's herald. 

The sheriff spat over the battlements. "de Giscard!" he growled. The king has sent his lapdog to Nottingham, he grimaced. That could only mean two things. King John wanted money: money to pay for his botched campaigns in France. Or, he wanted men to fill the depleted ranks of the English army in France. At this moment, he wanted to part with neither. Usually, men were expendable: he could muster soldiers from the many outlying villages that paid taxes in this shire. These people, however, were no fools. They had become restless over the higher taxes, while the roads lay unrepaired and dangerous. The woods were filled with outlaws who poached the king's deer and robbed the local nobility. He needed his men and money to continue the hunt for the only outlaw that mattered: Robin Hood.

Guy of Gisburne quickly put on his finest cape and shiniest gauntlets. "My lord, the king's herald is here!"

"As usual, Gisburne," the sheriff sneered, "you have the eyes of a hawk! I saw that contemptible man, de Giscard, over the horizon half an hour ago!"

"He's not a real soldier."Gisburne scoffed.

"And you are?" the sheriff gasped. "Unlike you, de Giscard knows his place. And that's as King John's cushy footstool." Gisburne snickered at the unflattering visual image. de Giscard earned his place through royal favour and noble birth, not through honours earned in battle. That alone was reason to despise him.

"You're an ambitious man, Gisburne," the sheriff observed, "but ambition without sense is a recipe for one thing ..."

"And what would that be, my lord?" Gisburne sighed impatiently, as he straightened his tunic.

The sheriff glanced back coldly at his hapless steward. "An early grave." The sheriff quickly descended the stone steps to the courtyard. "Come, the king's representative awaits. As long as that man bears the royal arms of the king, we shall have to pay him our respects. One other thing: don't say a word. God knows you'd only mess things up with your insolence."

When they turned a corner to the courtyard, the sheriff's sneer transformed into a congenial smile. Gisburne hurriedly arranged a dozen of his men into a clumsy honour guard.

"Monsieur de Giscard," the sheriff nodded his head slightly. "The king's herald, you honour us with your presence. If you had only informed me in advance, I would have prepared a fitting meal."

de Giscard bore the crimson livery of the royal household and wore fine leather gauntlets. He hopped off his horse, a shiny black stallion. Gisburne, who loved anything horse-related, admired the horse's black coat. The sheriff snapped impatiently. "Stop drooling at the beasts, Sir Guy, and have your men see to the horses!"

"You may dispense with the pleasantries, de Rainault," de Giscard replied. "In fact, I wish to speak to both of you. You and Sir Guy."

The sheriff became suspicious. He was used to de Giscard's disdainful attitude. It bothered him that the king's herald refused to address him by title. Generally, that attitude extended to Gisburne. Today, he referred to his steward as "Sir Guy". Gisburne seemed pleased that de Giscard showed him some respect, oblivious to whatever reason he might have to pretend that he respected him. The sheriff scowled as the royal guards replaced the pennant of Nottingham with that of the king.

They strolled into the inner hall of the castle. "As you are aware, the king has lost several holdings in France," de Giscard continued. "Even now, Philip Augustus moves to consolidate his gains."

"I've already levied a special tax to contribute to the French campaign," the sheriff explained. He had anticipated another request for money and soldiers. "I provided 100 men for His Majesty not six months ago. The landed nobility are grumbling about the excessive levies, the common-folk whine about roads in disrepair ... and there is the little problem of Robin Hood threatening to seize every shipment of the King's taxes on the London road!"

"Robin Hood, Robin Hood," de Giscard groaned. "Is this Robin Hood going to be your default excuse for your mediocre efforts?"

"Hardly," the sheriff retorted. "But, I cannot guarantee that the king will get the revenues he requires for his glorious campaign in Normandyif I can't ensure that every wolfshead in Sherwood won't steal it from me!"

"Robin Hood is your problem," de Giscard declared, ignoring the sheriff's sarcastic comment about King John's Norman disasters. "English success in Normandy is mine. You'll be glad to know that I'm not here to enlist more financial aid. The northern barons fear that they're about to lose their fiefdoms in France, and are filling our war chests with gold. They've also promised hundreds more soldiers. We only ask that every shire does its part for the cause.

Here it comes, the sheriff muttered under his breath. "And what can Nottingham do for His Majesty, sir?"

de Giscard finally took off his gauntlets. "I'm not here for money, or soldiers." He studied Gisburne carefully. "Only one soldier."

"I beg your pardon?" the sheriff demanded. It was beyond belief. Did he actually want to enlist Gisburne?

"Sir Guy of Gisburne, steward of Nottingham," the king's herald addressed him regally, "will you answer your king's summons... and fight for his glory in France?"

Gisburne's jaw dropped. "The king ... wants _me_ ... to fight under his banner in Normandy!"

"These are trying times, Sir Guy," de Giscard replied. "It's not the quantity of men that will count, but quality. If we are to take Paris ..."

"Oh dear Lord," the sheriff droned. "His Majesty should concentrate on holding onto Normandy, before engaging the full might of Philip Augustus!"

"And that fine stallion you admired in the courtyard," de Giscard added, "was bred in the royal stables. The steed is yours, if you will consider my offer to fight in France. The English soldier needs capable commanders. We are facing rebellion in Normandy; you, Sir Guy, have been, in effect, fighting a rebellion here in Nottinghamshire against those outlaws in Sherwood. Your leadership experience would serve us better in France. A man of your skills could go far: land, title, wealth."

"It's a fool's errand, Gisburne," the sheriff warned. Gisburne was a fool, with intelligence as dull as a rusted sword ... but he was also 'his' fool. He couldn't afford to lose his steward to some French adventure. To his dismay, Gisburne seemed to be enraptured by visions of foreign glories on French battlefields.

de Giscard escorted Gisburne to the dining hall. "Come, Sir Guy. We shall discuss the king's strategies for this summer's French campaigns ... de Rainault, please instruct your kitchens to prepare dinner for us. I shall be spending the fortnight here." Gisburne fell behind the herald, which gave the sheriff an opportunity to grab Gisburne by the arm.

"Don't be stupid, Sir Guy," the sheriff stressed. He thought that by using his title, Gisburne might pause to listen. "King John is no Lionheart! Normandy is falling to the French. Don't buy de Giscard's hogwash about glory in France! If you cross the Channel to join this misadventure,you'll reach Paris alright ... with your head atop a French pike! Philip Augustus means to restore French power in Normandy, and nothing ... not you, the king, or the whole English army will stop him from doing just that!"

"For a moment," Gisburne replied, "I had thought that you actually didn't want me to go because you'd miss me. Say what you will about our campaigns in France,but the king seems to recognize talent when he sees it."

The sheriff seethed, as he grabbed Gisburne's arm again. "So that's it, then. You're prepared to throw your pathetic life away on French soil ... for flattery and a shiny, black horse? If that's the case, you're the perfect fool for this errand!" The sheriff stormed away to his private apartments upstairs.

Gisburne hesitated. Is the sheriff right? Is Normandy lost? Is this all a fool's errand? The sheriff constantly insulted him, but he also valued his service. Otherwise, why would he keep him in his employ for this long? He observed the servants, who set a table of pork, cheese, fresh bread and wine from the castle cellars. The king's herald beckoned him to sit at the table of honour.

Gisburne thought of carrying the royal pennant,at the head of victorious army, marching through the gates of Paris. But he wouldn't be marching, because he would be atop that fine, black horse, bred from the royal stables! His naive dreams swept away the sheriff's common-sense warnings. It wasn't a misadventure: he was fighting for the king -- and for his own glory!

He grinned happily and sat at the herald's table. They would share wine and talk of war in France, and why shouldn't they? Sir Guy of Gisburne would be a captain in the English armies of Normandy. Not even the Lord High Sheriff of Nottingham could give him that!


	2. CH 2

At first light, Robin and the others followed a rippling stream through the forest. Nasir, scouting for foresters or the sheriff's soldiers, was several yards ahead of them. He whistled, which indicated that they should be wary. Another whistle told them that all was clear.

"Marion," Much asked, "Why haven't we seen any of the sheriff's men around the forest lately?"

"They're afraid, Much," Marion replied. "The sheriff lost another chest full of the king's taxes last week -- thanks to us!" They arrived a sloped embankment, which Marion, Much and Will easily climbed. Tuck, unfortunately, found the slope a bit too steep.

"Well, help me, Marion!" Tuck gasped. "God give me the strength to climb this stupid, damned bank!" Marion struggled to pull the hefty monk, but he was too heavy. She beckoned Much to help her.

Little John arrived behind them, and grunted as he shoved Tuck over the top of the embankment. "You'll have to do penance, Tuck, for using God's name in vain," he joked.

Tuck dusted off his robe and picked away some stray leaves. "I'll use your name in vain, Little John, if you don't find me a nice deer for tonight's dinner!" A warning whistle from Nasir interrupted their banter.

Robin sprinted towards Nasir. "What is it?"

Nasir traced some patterns on the main road to Nottingham. "Many horses. Two files. Going that way." He pointed towards Nottingham, several miles away to the north. They quickly retreated into the safety of the forest.

"So what do you think, Tuck?" Robin inquired. "King John might be a little upset that he's missing this month's taxes?"

"I'm sure he is!" Tuck exclaimed. "The chaplain at St. Martin's Priory told me a company of the king's soldiers passed by two days ago, but he assumed that they were returning to London.

Will flicked an impatient finger at Tuck's ear. "So, did you learn 'why' those soldiers were passing through the shire? Or were you too busy gorging yourself in the priory's pantry?"

Tuck paused. "All he said was that they were with someone very important from London. A messenger – that's what he said … And I didn't gorge myself!"

"A king's messenger, eh," Will muttered. He glanced at Robin. "Probably one of your high-born, noble friends from London."

"It's not like I know everyone in King John's court, Will!" Robin protested.

Marion picked off another loose leaf from Tuck's robe. "Well, whoever he is, he's sure to have either money or valuable information. Once he leaves the castle, we could ambush him on the road to London."

Little John leaned casually on Nasir's shoulder. "A rich messenger with King John's gold. I rather like that plan, wouldn't you agree Robin?"

"I'd like to know what this messenger is doing in Nottingham," Robin suggested. "And why he needed so many guards to accompany him. Tuck and Will can go to Wickham – maybe Edward knows something more. This could also be another trap from the sheriff. We hurt his coffers, and the king knows about it: he'd want revenge."

"Good point," Marion nodded. "We'll wait for them at the edge of the forest, near the London road." Will scrambled down the embankment, while Tuck cautiously struggled down.

"Go up the bank, they tell me," Tuck complained. "Now I have to go down again!"

"The exercise will do you good!" Will quipped. "Did you eat the whole of the priory's pantry, or just part of it?" Soon, they disappeared in the greenwood.

"Be careful," Robin hushed out to them. Even though they accepted him as Herne's son, he still sensed that they were still wary around him. Albion was by his side: it had saved him when Gisburne uncovered his identity as Robert of Huntingdon.

Somehow, Marion sensed his apprehension. "We trust you, Robin," she stated. "You have to trust us."

Robin helped Marion over a fallen tree trunk. "Do you feel that way, too?"

Marion hesitated, which made Robin feel awkward about his direct question. "Herne has claimed you as his son," Marion explained. "Albion has claimed you as its bearer. You are the Hooded Man by right." She hastened her pace, and effectively ended the discussion.

"Something the matter, Robin?" Little John wondered.

"It's nothing," Robin replied. He wanted to believe that Robin of Loxley's men had confidence in him. It seemed that they had more faith in him than he did in himself. He still felt isolated – despite the friendship of Little John, Nasir and the others. He wasn't a serf, but an earl's son who was recently disowned by his father. The earl had to reject him, or risk accusations of treason.

Marion had proven that she continued to represent the soul of this group of outlaws. They drew their confidence from her strength. She was every bit as skilled a fighter as the rest of them, and their loyalty to her was unquestioned.

Marion earned that loyalty by deeds and sacrifices, Robin thought. By heaven, she lost her husband for their cause. Our cause. Maybe Will was right: it was unfair of me to assume that she had overcome that grief so soon.

As he watched Marion and Much race happily towards Nasir, he thought it might be best to set aside his undeniable feelings for Lady Marion of Leaford.

* * *

The barber hastily applied the cream on Hubert de Giscard's face. The sheriff, wearing only a light tunic and stockings, sat impatiently beside him. He had come by the barber's room for his weekly shave – only to find the king's herald in his seat. de Giscard cursed when the barber nicked his chin with the blade. 

"God's teeth, man," the herald growled. "Show some care with the blade. You're not carving some slab of meat!" Harold – the sheriff's latest barber – merely shrugged.Somehow, he managed to survive six months in his service. His predecessor accidentally nicked the sheriff's ear during a close shave.

The ravens were still pecking at his corpse outside the castle walls.

"Yes, Harold, be careful," the sheriff mocked. "You're shaving the King's Herald, who has informed us about His Majesty's noteworthy successes in France." Harold snickered at the sheriff's ironic statement. Rumours had spread throughout the land that Philip of France would force the king to sue for peace. French dominion over Normandy would likely be the price for that peace.

"You're bordering on treason, de Rainault," de Giscard warned. "Lisieux will be in English hands by month's end, I'm sure of it! Philip will have no choice but to fight a retreat all the way to Paris." The barber skillfully traced his blade over the youthful herald's chin.

"Ah yes … Paris," the sheriff sneered. The English armies were ill supplied, inadequately led and rife with desertion. His miserable relations in France had told him so in their letters (at least, the letters which miraculously survived the scorched, war-torn Norman countryside).

The wooden door banged open. The entrance revealed a tall, blond soldier in the king's livery. The sheriff took another glance: it was Gisburne. He wore new boots, a bright crimson tunic emblazoned with the king's regal, lion emblem and new leather gauntlets.

"How is your horse, Gisburne, captain of the royal guard?" the sheriff asked him. He had to admit that de Giscard knew how to win over his steward. Give Sir Guy a horse, and he would do whatever you asked of him. He was also ambitious, but the sheriff knew that the knight lacked the intelligence and discipline to harness his appetites.

A comely, chestnut-haired chamber maid interrupted them and curtsied in the doorway. "Please excuse, milord. The cooks would like to know what you shall have for breakfast." Gisburne admired the slender arms of the peasant girl.

"Salted pork and some bread will do, girl!" the sheriff barked. "Can't you see I'm waiting for a shave?" He darted a glance towards the leering Gisburne. His steward's appetite for women was another irritating weakness. "And would you stop daydreaming? Must you ogle every maiden in the castle! Anyhow, what the devil are you doing here?"

"Salted pork, right away, milord!" the maid announced. She curtsied, and then snuck a bashful glance at Gisburne.

Gisburne finally tore his eyes away from the girl and turned towards the sheriff. "I shall be going to the armourer for a fitting. I'll need new armour for the campaigns in France."

The herald, newly shaved, stepped out of the barber's chair. "Good job! Your barber is an artist of the craft, de Rainault!"

The sheriff immediately sat in the vacated chair. "He's more skilled with a blade than Gisburne. Perhaps you should send Harold to France instead! What's this about new armour, Gisburne? Since when did you become flush with money?"

"My lord, de Giscard, provided me with my first wages," Gisburne declared. "I explained to him that my present armour was insufficient."

"Everything about you is insufficient," the sheriff quipped, as the barber began to lather his face with cream. "Except your wealth of bad luck, which – sadly – you've passed on to me! Well, go on then! You may have your leave." The herald watched with amusement at the relentless bickering.

Before Gisburne left, the sheriff called out. "One other thing, Gisburne. Keep your lecherous hands off that chamber maid. Try not to soil everything that wears a skirt in this godforsaken castle!"

de Giscard scratched his head at the absurd relationship between de Rainault and his wayward steward. "Let the poor fellow have his sport. She's just a peasant girl. And a Saxon one at that."

"That may be," the sheriff replied, "but she's also a girl in my employ – and I can't have Gisburne preying on the help like a starved wolf among lambs! Who will do my laundry if they're all with child? By Christ, he'll fill my castle with his bastard offspring if I don't rein in his lascivious habits!"

The herald howled in laughter. The Lord High Sheriff was acting like a befuddled father. Gisburne, no doubt, was Nottingham's prodigal son: one of many English knights who would be of better service fighting against the French for king and glory. One band of rampant wolfsheads in Sherwood was meaningless compared to defeat in Normandy. Such a loss would be a disgrace to English honour … and a black stain on the Plantagenet household. That outcome was unacceptable.

Any knight skilled in war would do now, de Giscard mused. Even Sir Guy of Gisburne.


	3. CH 3

Will and Tuck nestled in the shade of oak trees. They lay hidden in the forest on the outskirts of Wickham.

"It's been hours, Tuck," Will grumbled. "Where is Edward anyway?" If there was one thing that aggravated Will Scarlet, it was waiting to do something.

A bird call alerted them. Edward of Wickham looked warily over his shoulder, and then disappeared into the edge of the forest. "Blessed be," he greeted the outlaws. "God be with you, Friar. Will."

"So have you heard anything about those king's guards in Nottingham?" Will inquired. "Why were there so many of them?"

Edward nodded. "Two dozen of them, straight from London. Under the orders of Hubert de Giscard, the king's herald. You know Alice, the cartwright's daughter? She works in the castle as a chamber maid, and she says the herald has been roaming the shires for weeks to gather fresh recruits for the English armies in Normandy."

"Oh, that rascally fellow," Tuck muttered. "If little Hubert is here, he must want more money for King John, or more soldiers. Or both."

Edward shook his head. "Actually, he's here for one man: Guy of Gisburne. Philip of France is pressing his advantage in Normandy. It's not looking good for King John: the nobles are restless and England needs all the knights she can muster. Squires and knights from all the great households are being enticed to serve, with promises of gold and glory."

Will spat on the ground in disgust. "Gold and glory? All they'll find there is disease, destruction and death. If they want Gisburne to join that disaster, King John's army must be in worse shape than we thought!" Will recalled horrific images of long ago campaigns: the hail of arrows, and the clash of pikes, swords and shields. Crimson-clad men slaughtered on either side of him, by the hundreds. Great siege engines, pummeling town walls into dust. And the screams of the dying soldiers, the women and children. He could never forget those screams.

Tuck snapped in front of Will's face. "Wake up, Will. Edward says it's not safe to stay long here."

"You'd best leave now," Edward agreed. "Alice says the herald and his men will be leaving Nottingham before nightfall."

Will sheathed his dagger. "And what about Gisburne?"

"I assume that he'll join the herald on his journey," Edward shrugged. "There's talk of a fresh army, ready to depart in Southampton. My guess is they'll go there, if they don't stop in London first." Edward nervously shifted his weight left and right. "You'd better go. It won't be good for us if the king's guards spot you near the village."

Minutes later, Will and Tuck were deep in the forest. "Whether Hubert and Guy go to London, or direct to Southampton ... they'll have to take the London road south."

"Two dozen men, eh?" Will grinned. "At least three for each of us. Gisburne's mine! We have unfinished business, him and I!"

Tuck shuddered at the thought. Will was always unpredictable, especially when his infamous temper took hold of him. Sir Guy represented everything he hated about the Normans: well-born, smug and ruthless.

At three-to-one odds, anything could happen this dusk ...

* * *

The sheriff stormed through the upper chambers of the castle, draped in his fine robes with his chain of office around his neck. "Gisburne!" he barked loudly. His steward was nowhere to be found. 

Hubert de Giscard prepared to leave, after he attended morning Mass in the chapel. The king's guards saddled their horses in the courtyard and -- finally -- took down the royal standard from the castle walls. The Nottingham pennant returned to its place of honour. The sooner de Giscard is gone, the better, the sheriff grunted to himself.

In a room down the hall, he heard some giggling. Could it be children? He slowly approached the room. More giggling. It wasn't children, but it sounded like a young woman. Then, he heard a hearty laugh. The sheriff knew _that_ man's voice.

He burst into the room, where he found Gisburne and the comely chestnut-haired chamber maid chasing each other around a spartan wooden table. Thankfully, Gisburne and the girl were still dressed.

"My lord, I was just --" Gisburne blurted, "well, I was ... you see, I had lost the key to the armoury and ..."

"You're a perennial liar, Gisburne," the sheriff countered. He turned his attention towards the maid. "You, the chamber maid. Did Sir Guy besmirch your honour?"

"No, milord," Alice, the chamber maid curtsied awkwardly. "Sir Guy told me about his exciting mission in France. Then, he wanted to see me smile. All he wanted was a goodbye kiss!" Her clothes weren't out of place, so it appeared that she was truthful.

"A goodbye kiss?" the sheriff snarled. "If there's one thing you need to know, lass, it's that Gisburne's not the sort of fellow who settles for just a goodbye kiss. Lord knows you can do better than someone of Sir Guy's questionable qualities!"

Alice began to cry. "Please, milord. I beg you -- don't dismiss me from your service!" She cowered before him on the floor, clinging to his cloak. "He only wanted one kiss." Her sobs became uncontrollable.

The sheriff abruptly picked up the girl. "Snap out of it, woman! You're a chamber maid of Nottingham Castle, a position of some perks --" he started, with a warning glance at Gisburne, "-- and a few perils. Show some dignity to the office. God in heaven, you did nothing wrong -- yet! Fetch some bread and cheese for the king's guards. They have a long journey ahead. You might as well make a basket for Gisburne, too. The fool is fighting for England, after all!"

Alice wiped her nose with her sleeve, heartened by the sheriff's apparent mercy. "Oh thank you, Your Worshipfulness." She spontaneously gave the sheriff a hug.

"Arggh, get away from me," the sheriff protested as he pushed the girl away from him. "Off to the kitchens with you!"

When Alice departed, the sheriff turned to Gisburne. He was already putting on his shiny new armour. He almost looked respectable, and sadly, too eager to seek almost certain death in Normandy.

Gisburne crossed his arms defiantly. "Here to lecture me again about the folly of seeking glory in France, my lord?" he sniffed.

"No, Gisburne," the sheriff replied wearily. "It's no use reasoning with you. It's your life to throw away. I have something for your trip." In a few moments, he returned with an ornate scabbard. He unsheathed a sword, decorated with a ruby in the hilt. "I had it made for my first cousin's wedding, as a gift. But the wedding was cancelled."

"Cancelled?" Gisburne wondered. "On account of what?"

"On account of Flemish raiders burning his town to the ground and slaying the entire wedding party," the sheriff replied mildly. "If you insist on marching to your death, you might as well fight with something better than that cattle prod you call a sword!"

Gisburne carefully wielded the sword. "The balance, it's perfect! A fine weapon, surely!" He seemed to be misty-eyed. "My Lord Sheriff, I -- I don't know what to say."

Disgusted at Alice's unexpected hug, he was revolted at another sign of sloppy emotion. "By the saints, keep yourself in check, man! I gave you the sword because I don't want it! It reminds me too much of my relatives. You can bet the nobles who are marshalling this ridiculous army in Southampton won't provide you with a suitable sword. You're going to die a miserable death on some accursed Norman field, all in the name of glory and kingdom ... but it won't be due to a faulty sword, that I can assure you!"

Gisburne wasn't sure if the sheriff was wishing him well, or cursing him as a damned fool -- but he appreciated this rare gesture. "Thank you, my lord -- I think." He quickly descended the steps to the courtyard below.

The sheriff observed the courtyard activity from the upper battlements. That sword was of fine quality, he mused. Almost too fine for a mere steward.

Gisburne and the other knights who were foolish enough to sail to Normandy were likely doomed to certain defeat, and death at victorious French hands. I'm to lose a steward, the sheriff grumbled, to some faint hope that England could keep its Norman possessions out of Philip Augustus' grasp?

He had already instructed the castle's chaplain to offer a Mass for quick success in this English campaign. Religion mattered little to him, but he knew the townspeople would think highly of their sheriff's 'devotion' to the English cause.

Here in Nottingham, he had more immediate concerns: Robin Hood and the recent loss of the king's taxes.


	4. CH 4

Chants of _"God save the King!"_ rang out near the castle's main gate. The sheriff had assembled a crowd of townspeople to cheer on the departing soldiers. The chants seemed unenthusiastic, since most people were well aware of England's fading fortunes in France.

A crisp gush of wind prompted the sheriff the wrap his fur-lined robe around him. "As you can see," he chattered through his teeth, "the people hope and pray for His Majesty's rapid success in Normandy."

"God willing, de Rainault," de Giscard remarked, while adjusting his helmet. The herald was no fool. He expected Philip of France to shore up his successes in Normandy. As long as England held Château-Gaillard, Richard the Lionheart's great Norman fortress (and the key to English possessions), Normandy would hold. de Giscard feared that was far less certain now.

Gisburne galloped to the front of the horsemen, proudly seated on his fine, black stallion. A few of the castle's servants tossed rose petals before them. Alice, the chamber maid, waved frantically at them. "Godspeed, Guy!"

The sheriff rolled his eyes at the absurd display of patriotism. He was on foot and struggled to keep up with the trotting horsemen. "Keep whatever few wits you have about you, Gisburne! Philip Augustus means to drive the English to the sea. The king's army stands in his way. If it means anything to you, may God be with you – because I doubt there'll be any English soldier alive in France by the time you and this miserable army arrives in Normandy!"

"We shall prevail, my Lord Sheriff!" Gisburne declared confidently. He smiled as the townspeople raised a cheer. "The people want us to beat the French."

The sheriff groaned at his steward's naivety. "They're Saxons! Most of them regard us as French! It's stunning that the shire hasn't risen up in rebellion to take advantage of King John's foreign distractions. Wales, Ireland … where else does he want to plant his little standard?"

"All in good time, de Rainault," the herald stated. "Wales will fall. And we'll hold Normandy – whatever the cost." Gisburne flinched at that last remark, because the cost for defending Normandy could be many, many English lives.

The horses quickly galloped out of the gate, on the road south to London, to Southampton … and to war.

They passed many villages and hamlets as they traveled, but the waving crowds were not to be found. The serfs ignored them as they tilled the fields, herded sheep or journeyed north to the Nottingham market. King John's defence of English honour in France meant little to them; in fact, the sheriff had bled them dry with new levies for the foreign campaign.

They continued on the main London road until they reached a fork. If they remained on the main road, they would eventually pass by Sherwood Forest. The smaller road – while less traveled – would take them away from the forest, past the Abbey of Kirklees and re-join the London road several miles away.

"Uh, my lord," Gisburne stuttered. "Might I suggest that we take the lesser road, so that we might dine at the abbey?" He didn't want to give the impression that he feared Sherwood Forest and the Hooded Man.

"But that would add two hours to our journey," de Giscard scoffed. "We have two dozen armed guards, Sir Guy. Let this Robin Hood show his face: we'll parade his head in triumph upon our arrival in London!"

"Robin Hood is no ordinary bandit," Gisburne argued, as he nervously eyed the approaching forest. "Some say the forest is haunted. Evil spirits and demons!"

The herald held up his hand to silence his protests. "Pagan superstition. This Hooded Man is just that – a man! We make haste to London, where we shall gather the rest of the knights and squires. Then on to Southampton, and victory against Philip Augustus!" He galloped his horse forward, joined by the rest of his crimson-liveried cohort.

Gisburne hesitated. Five miles to the south, the forest would surround either side of the main London road. The wolfsheads could strike at any spot there. Despite his instincts, he shrugged away his fears and rode after the cohort, with the sheriff's exquisite sword and scabbard clanging against his new mailed armour.

He didn't hear the quiet whistle of the songbird in the distance …

* * *

An hour later, de Giscard led the horsemen down a wooded section of the London road. Sherwood Forest enveloped either side of them. Gisburne's horse dawdled behind them. 

"See, Sir Guy!" de Giscard grinned. "The outlaws have taken flight. Your 'Robin Hood' would dare not assault a man of the king!"

There was a rustle of branches. Nasir dropped from the trees above, landed behind de Giscard and drew a dagger to his throat. Little John swatted his quarterstaff at another guard, and knocked him off his horse. One of the king's guards began to draw his sword, but Much set loose a slingshot and knocked him unconscious.

"The devils are behind us!" Gisburne snarled. He tried to spin his horse around, but Marion and Tuck had already drawn their longbows behind their leafy cover.

"For God's sake, men, charge them!" de Giscard ordered, but the guards had panicked and lost their formation. Robin fired a warning shot, which thudded on a tree just behind Gisburne. Robin drew another arrow and Will Scarlet, brandishing a sword, blocked the road south. They were surrounded.

"It's over, my lord," Robin beamed. "Tell your men to stand down, or else!" Gisburne knew it was hopeless to resist, and instructed the rest of the guards to throw down their swords.

Robin aimed an arrow directly at the herald. Will lunged forward with his sword and grabbed the bridle of Gisburne's horse.

"You ain't goin' nowhere, Gisburne!" Will growled, and yanked him off his horse. "You and me got some re-acquaintin' to do." He and Much shoved Gisburne towards Robin.

"Well, if it isn't Hubert de Giscard!" Tuck smiled, with his bow still drawn. He pulled out a small knife and cut off the herald's purse. "I shall return this gold to the people you've stolen it from."

"I told him to go around Sherwood Forest," Gisburne moaned.

"de Giscard?" Robin inquired. "The king's herald. It seems we have a very important guest today! He must be worth at least 300 gold marks."

"400, at least," Tuck insisted.

Marion slowly emerged from the woods, with her bow still drawn. "What shall we do with the king's men?"

Robin and Little John quickly discussed what they should do. Little John seemed to disagree with Robin's idea, but Robin managed to persuade him.

"You – the king's men – our quarrel's not with you," Robin announced. "Leave your swords and ride as fast as you can to London! The Hooded Man has spared your lives. Return to Sherwood Forest again, and I will show you no mercy."

"Who is the captain of the guard?" Marion bellowed. Her arrow was still aimed at the body of crimson-clad soldiers.

"I am," one of the horsemen stated.

"Go to Nottingham and tell the sheriff that he can have the king's herald back for –" Marion began, and turned to Robin. "— did we settle on a price for his ransom, Robin?"

"350 gold marks, and the sheriff can have de Giscard back … unharmed," Robin declared. The guard captain turned his horse around and galloped northward. The rest of the disarmed and injured guards trotted quickly southward, under the watchful eyes (and arrows) of Nasir, Marion and Tuck.

"Lady Wolfshead," Gisburne sneered at Marion. "It seems you have taken charge of your dead husband's band of ruffians. What's the matter – Huntingdon not living up to Loxley's legend?"

Will shoved him violently. "Watch your tongue, or I'll slice it off!" He yanked Gisburne's coin purse from him and inspected its contents. "Hmm, that's quite a small fortune, Gisburne." He tossed the purse to Tuck, and took the ornate scabbard from Gisburne. "You ain't got yer own money to buy such an excellent sword, so you must have stolen it, eh?"

"It was a parting gift," Gisburne admitted. "From my Lord Sheriff." He seemed to be upset that the sword was taken from him, and Will relished the fact that Gisburne had shown some weakness.

Much seemed puzzled. "And why did he want to give you a gift, Sir Guy?" Gisburne didn't answer. Much didn't press the issue and collected the swords left by the king's men. Nasir began to bind their prisoners' wrists with rope.

"So, the rumours at court are true, then," de Giscard mocked, after Nasir had pushed him towards the outlaws. "You've become an outlaw, Huntingdon – breaking the king's peace, and living in sin with your predecessor's widow. Your father was right to disown you."

"That's not true!" Marion protested. She felt uncomfortable that Gisburne and the herald had made Robin look inferior in front of her friends.

"I'm not bothered," Robin said. "Hubert de Giscard is King John's simpering errand-boy. Scampering around the kingdom to deliver royal messages, while milking the people dry with levies for the king's wars in France! My lord and Sir Guy will be our guests tonight." He sounded brash and confident, but Marion noticed that his eyes betrayed the truth: he was hurt by Gisburne's insults and the herald's accusations.

Will, Nasir, Tuck and Much escorted their valuable prisoners back to camp, deep in the forest. Little John also sensed that the insults bothered Robin, and he approached him.

"Don't mind Gisburne, Robin," Little John offered. "His brain's in his arse. He just gave us the king's herald on a silver platter! Hubert had 100 marks on him! His ransom will feed many a poor village, and we didn't even take a life." He slapped Robin on the back. "We did good today … Herne's Son." Robin grinned at the remark. Little John always knew how to raise his spirits, but the sting of Guy and Hubert's words still lingered.

"You're an honourable man, Robin," Marion reassured him. "I don't care what the barons and lords say about you – or me – at court! And Little John is right: you are Herne's Son. We can help the people of the shire. That's what's important." She and Little John rejoined the rest of the band, still uncertain if the insults and rumours troubled Robin.

Robin slung his quiver over his shoulder, and began to put on his hood.

Then, he paused. He felt that he didn't deserve to wear that hood. That hood represented more than some pagan legend, or even Loxley's mythical fame: it was an ideal, a hope that there could be justice for the poor and dispossessed.

_Why did you choose me for such a burden, Herne?_ Robin sighed to himself.


	5. CH 5

Robin and the others gathered near the crackling fire at camp, while Tuck stirred a pot of rabbit stew. Little John returned from the forest empty-handed and sat beside Will.

"No deer, huh," Will muttered.

"They must be at the other end of the forest," Little John guessed. At the edge of the camp, Gisburne and de Giscard sat on a log, with both wrists and ankles bound.

"You hungry, my lord de Giscard?" Tuck inquired. "There's plenty of stew for all."

"You'd have nothing I'd be interested in eating," de Giscard snapped. Tuck ignored his protests and poured a bowl of stew. Much tried to take it, but Tuck shoved him aside with his hips.

"Wait your turn, Much," Tuck admonished. "Guests get the first helpings. It's rabbit stew, Hubert. Flavoured to perfection." The herald sniffed as the aroma lingered in the air. "Rabbit stew, you say?" de Giscard peered curiously at the steaming bowl. "It does smell good ..." Even though his wrists were bound, he could still hold the bowl.

"What are you trying to do, kill 'im?" Will scoffed. "He ain't worth much if he croaks!" de Giscard hungrily lapped up the delicious stew, oblivious to the bindings on his wrists and ankles.

"At least someone appreciates your cooking, Tuck!" Marion laughed, as she tore into a loaf of bread.

"And how about you, Sir Guy?" Tuck offered. "Stew for you?"

Gisburne sighed uncomfortably. How can my lord de Giscard eat with these godless heathens, he thought to himself. "I'm not hungry – and this is an outrage! You can't treat men of the king like this!" Tuck tossed him an apple. "Suit yourself," he said. "Don't come complainin' to me when you're hungry in the middle of the night!"

Will scowled at Gisburne. The knight refused to accept his captivity, even with the bindings on his wrists. "What'll we do 'bout Gisburne," Will turned to Robin. "I mean – the sheriff don't care much for him."

Robin thought about the question. "I presumed that I would exchange him – free of charge – when we collect Hubert's ransom." Much stopped slurping his bowl of stew to consider the dilemma carefully.

"You sure about that, Will?" Much offered. "That he ain't worth something to the sheriff?"

"The half-wit speaks," Gisburne muttered. Marion tossed a bread crust at him. "Be quiet, Sir Guy! Go on, Much."

Much hesitated, as all eyes turned towards him. "If the sheriff doesn't care for him … why did he give him a parting gift?"

Marion unsheathed the sword from its exquisitely carved scabbard, which further agitated Gisburne. "Be careful with that!" Gisburne protested, to no avail. Will, Nasir and the others grinned as Marion parried imaginary blows in the air. She was a crusader's daughter and skilled with a blade. She could best any of Nottingham's soldiers in combat. When she finished play-fighting, the band cheered loudly. Even the herald couldn't resist a slight grin.

"A parting gift?" Robin inquired. He chewed on an apple slice, while studying the fine sword. "Were you dismissed from my lord sheriff's service?"

"I left willingly," Gisburne replied. "If you were still in his king's good graces, you would have heard the summons for men of quality to fight for King John in France. We are to reclaim Normandy for the Plantagenets. Perhaps you would have joined us."

Little John laughed. "If Robin were still with the earl, he'd likely have been your commander, since he outranked you. Like Robin said … you're only a steward, Guy."

"He's not the earl's son any longer," Gisburne emphasized. "He's no better than the rest of you brigands now! He's thrown away an earldom, title, privilege … and for what: bowls of rabbit stew, and living among spirits and fairies!"

Will swatted the apple from Gisburne's mouth. "I can't believe this! You think Robin's the fool? If anyone's the fool, it's you, Gisburne! You bought all that rubbish about fightin' for king and glory! It's not a bloody tournament over there!"

"What would you know about proper soldierin', Scarlet?" Gisburne grumbled.

"More than you do, that's for damn sure!" Will barked. He picked up the sword, impressed with its craftsmanship. "This sword's too good for you, Guy! It's won't do you no good in France, anyway. What's one sword against a dozen of Philip's finest chargers – the cream of the realm – stampeding towards you with their lances, clubs and axes! You're as good as dead over there … with or without this stupid sword. I say we sell it! I'm sure we could fetch a handsome price …"

"You speak as if you've seen battle before, wolfshead," de Giscard observed. "Did you serve under the Lionheart's banner? In Anjou? Brittany? Perhaps in the Holy Land?"

Will suddenly fell silent. He didn't want to talk about his past – not to anyone. He could never forget the screams of long ago. "It's none of your business, Hubert." He gave Robin the sword and stormed into the woods alone. Little John got up to follow him, but Nasir quietly urged him to let him be.

"You're right, Nasir," Little John relented. "He doesn't want to talk about his past. He is right about one thing, Sir Guy. You're a fool if you think Normandy is all knightly games and parades."

"I'm no fool," Gisburne insisted. "I know the risks. The French outnumber us. But if we don't act now, Philip will conquer Normandy, and England will lose all of her possessions in France!" He glanced anxiously at his sword, fearing that the outlaws were going to sell it. An awkward silence fell upon the camp. Nasir sharpened his sword, while Little John checked on Tuck's brewing stew. Much picked at his fingernails. Marion mended the sleeve of her cloak.

Robin thought about all that was said tonight. They were all right – even Sir Guy. Had he been the earl's son, he would have leapt at the chance to reap glory and honour across the Channel. He would have done anything to escape the dreary boredom of the great hall of Huntingdon Castle. His father, experienced in the horrors of war, would have forbidden him, but he would have ignored the earl and joined other, proud (and bored) lords and knights on this adventure.

Will knew better. Robin suspected that Will had indeed fought under Lionheart's banner: he supposed at Anjou, Brittany, or the Touraine. It mattered not; the truth was that France had become a bloodied graveyard for many naïve English souls. Philip Augustus was driven to unite the French territories into one domain, and nothing would deny the fulfillment of his destiny. Gisburne was a gutless brute with few known loyalties, but he sought what Robin also wanted: to mark his place in this world. _To be his own man._ Gisburne's face revealed that his stubbornness faded when Will threatened to sell the only gift which represented the sheriff's inexplicable regard for his luckless steward.

Whether Sir Guy was prepared to die for selfish honour, or English pride, he was prepared to stand up for something. When Robin looked up, Will had returned. He continued to mock Sir Guy's growing sadness at the loss of his sword, encouraged by Little John and Much.

"That's enough, Will!" Marion ordered. Gisburne, bound and slumped on the rotting log, looked pathetic. "He can't do anyone harm now."

"So we're just goin' to let Gisburne go back to Nottingham with his sword?" Will growled. "He'll use that weapon against us … and against the people of Sherwood!"

"Sell the sword, Robin!" Little John demanded. "He'll use it against us, the moment he's set loose!" Much agreed with them, but Tuck seemed hesitant. Little John asked Nasir for his opinion, but the Saracen merely shrugged. He didn't care either way.

"That's three in favour," Will counted on his fingers, "two against: Marion and Tuck, and one heathen fellow who doesn't give a damn either way. What's your call, Robin?"

Robin stood up at full height, bearing the sheathed sword. "Gisburne won't use this sword against anyone in this shire … ever!"

"There you have it, it's done," Will presumed. "We sell the sword and give the extra money to the orphanage or some other place."

"Hubert's purse is more than enough for the orphans," Tuck suggested.

"Robin!" Marion protested. Her glared angrily at Little John and Much, whom she expected to have some pity for Gisburne's plight. "The sword was a gift. Look at him – it means a lot to him. It's probably the only sign of the sheriff's appreciation for his service."

"But it's Gisburne, Marion –" Little John bleated, but Marion's steely gaze quickly silenced him.

"Enough!" Robin declared. He carried the sword to Gisburne. "He won't use it in the shire … because he'll be using it to fight the French and defend English possessions in Normandy."

Gisburne's jaw dropped. He could hardly believe the words he just heard. "I beg your pardon?"

"What!" Will gasped. "You're giving back his sword? I suppose you're going to let him go free, too! It don't surprise me. You're all alike: you speak the same language, believe in the same garbage about duty to the bloody King, to fight for his glory. Huntingdon and Gisburne, like two peas in a pod –"

"Just listen, Will!" Marion interrupted.

"You're right, Will," Robin agreed. "No amount of English knights will keep Normandy out of Philip's grasp. Gisburne is probably going to die under the hooves of a French charger, or impaled while crawling through a breach in some Norman fortress. He'll never reach Paris – at least, not with his head still attached to his body! I say we let him go on to Southampton to join King John's army."

"A brilliant idea, Robin!" Tuck smiled broadly. "If Sir Guy wants to sacrifice his life for England, let him do just that! It saves us from having to slit his throat and atone for it before God. Let that sin fall upon Philip of France's conscience!"

Will paced furiously around the fire. "I don't like it, not one bit!"

"If he's going to meet his maker," Marion argued, "then let it be for defending English interests in France. He will bother the people of Sherwood no more. Let him fight with an actual purpose, for once in his life."

Will spun around, glowering at Gisburne. "You better fight like the devil with that sword, Gisburne! Philip and his dukes will be throwing the hordes of hell at you! Show no mercy to the French!"

Gisburne remained stunned at the surprise turn of events. He might still seek glory and honour in Normandy!

"So we're agreed, then," Robin proclaimed, in a tone that demanded obedience.

Gisburne nodded at his black stallion. "Will I get to keep my horse?" he wondered. "You shall," Robin agreed. "There's only one condition for your release: you are to leave for Southampton at dawn, never to return to this shire, under pain of death should you break that promise."

"He better not drown while crossing the Channel!" Will stabbed his finger towards Gisburne. "You better not drown along the way, Guy! I expect you to die in Normandy … because if you don't, I'm comin' over there to finish you off myself!"

"It will be a glorious day, I'm sure," de Giscard sighed. These outlaws didn't seem like the vile cutthroats that de Rainault had described. They were thieves, but thieves for the people. Still, they stole money which could have been used to pay for arms, supplies, men and ships in France. It wasn't strategy that plagued the Norman campaigns, he convinced himself, it was the lack of resources.

Robin slapped Gisburne's shoulder, in mock friendship. "Don't be so glum, Sir Guy! You'll see the shores of Normandy yet. Fame, glory and death await you! Send my regards to Philip of France when you see him."

Gisburne was even less confident than he was before of his prospects in Normandy, and Will Scarlet had painted a gruesome picture of his fate. It was his choice, and he would earn fame, glory (and, God willing, the king's gratitude). He was fortunate that Robin and Lady Wolfshead had the noble breeding to understand the concept of honour and duty.

When night descended on the forest, Nasir had first watch and surveyed the campsite atop a leafy oak tree. Everyone else had fallen asleep. Gisburne grinned in the darkness. He still saw the shadow of his fine steed, tethered to a bush. The beautiful, ebony horse would take him to glory in Normandy! My Lord Sheriff called me many insults, Gisburne mused, but he understood that codes of chivalry demanded that I – a knight of the realm -- answer my king's call. English honour was at stake! Whether Norman or Saxon, it was better to die in battle as an Englishman, than to live as a vassal of that wretched Philip Augustus.

Hubert snored loudly, which prompted Little John to throw a pebble at him. Will was on the ground nearby, and tossed violently in his sleep. "Don't drown, Gisburne," he mumbled. "You better die in France, or I'll find you. I'll find you."

Gisburne cowered in the cold darkness, as Scarlet's murderous vow echoed in the trees. _You'd better die … or I'll find you._


	6. CH 6

Robin tapped Nasir on the shoulder. "Get some sleep, my friend," he said, "It's my turn on watch." The drowsy Saracen leaned against the tree trunk and settled on the ground near the fireplace. Marion and Much rested nearby. Little John, who had the misfortune of sleeping beside the snoring de Giscard, grunted uncomfortably. Will, clutching his dagger, faced Gisburne. The knight was sound asleep, confident that he was to be set free in the morning.

The forest was quiet, except for the chirp of a cricket. An hour passed. Robin muffled a yawn with his hand, and cradled his bow in his arms. I'll just close my eyes for a minute, he told himself. _I'll wake up in a minute …_

When he awoke, he found the forest wrapped in thick fog and mist. The camp and his band were nowhere to be found! The moonlight briefly peaked through the dense forest canopy. He could have sworn that he spotted the outline of Huntingdon Castle on the horizon, with its ramparts bristling with the pennant of his family's coat of arms. He wasn't sure if he was still in Sherwood Forest.

"Where am I?" Robin asked. He caught his reflection in a nearby, moonlit stream. He was wearing the garments of an earl's son: a fine blue cloak and tunic bearing the Huntingdon crest.

"You're lost," a voice echoed in the mist. "But I have found you."

Robin drew Albion, which still remained by his side. "Who goes there? Are you friend ... or foe?"

A tall shadow emerged from the fog. The figure had removed his hood. His long, dark hair revealed that it was Robin of Loxley, who carried a longbow and quiver.

"Loxley? But, you're dead!" Robin gasped. Could he be a spirit?

"Not dead," Loxley stated, "but free. Have you lost your way, Herne's Son?"

"I'm not worthy to be Herne's Son," Robin blurted. "I'm not ready. There's so much suffering: the sheriff has bled the people dry so that King John can protect his French holdings! Our struggle bears no fruit."

Loxley clasped Robin's shoulders. "Don't you see? You continue to bear the burdens of the past. You are an earl's son no more. You are the Hooded Man. Your destiny is to struggle. No one can predict what is to pass. We can't alter the past. What we can change is the here and now." He led Robin to a campfire. "Come, join me by the fire."

Reluctantly, Robin sat beside Loxley at the campsite. "More riddles. Why me? How long must I fight this battle? Until we reclaim Normandy? Until King John's reign ends? There's so much I wanted to ask you."

Loxley smiled, and shook his head. "You trouble yourself with things that matter not. This journey you are on -- it has no beginning, and no end. It is enough for you to travel on this path."

"The men lack faith in me," Robin admitted. "They see me as a pretender. They're your men, they don't need me!"

Loxley tossed some kindling wood onto the fire. "Without you, they are sheep among wolves. I know. I have faced my greatest enemy, and now I am free. I have seen the torments they have endured since then. It is not yet their time to face this enemy. Lead them, and they shall find their way." He slung his quiver on his shoulder and carried his bow.

"Wait," Robin grabbed his arm. "Marion suffers. Even now, she mourns for you."

Loxley paused. "I would do anything to lighten that burden ... but this is part of her own journey. We cannot reverse the march of time. I will always cherish her. Marion is the strongest of them, but her will to go on depends on you. You must keep the faith, Hooded Man: for her sake, and for the people." He put on his hood and began to depart into the mist.

"No!" Robin ran towards him. He knelt and presented Albion to Loxley. "I am unworthy to be Herne's Son. I lack the strength! Herne can choose another. I have lost my way. I can't stop all the suffering."

Loxley smiled and placed a comforting hand on Robin's head. "We all have fear. These are trying times, for all of you. We can only change the here and the now. Only you can lead them. You have been chosen. You are no longer Robert of Huntingdon. Let go of your past; don't run from what is to be." He disappeared into the whirling mists.

"No, don't leave me!" Robin cried out. "I don't understand!" The mists began to evaporate.

"I must go, Robin of the Hood," a voice echoed from the woods. "But I am always with you." Another voice called out to him: _"Robin. Robin."_

"Robin," Marion nudged his shoulder. "It is dawn. Time for breakfast." He had been dreaming, but it seemed so real to him.

"Huh? Where am I?" Robin scrambled to his feet. He was still at the campsite. Will and Gisburne traded more insults, while Tuck prepared breakfast. "Marion, I saw him. I saw Robin of Loxley -- your husband."

Marion held up her hand to her mouth. "H-he came to you ... in a dream? What did he say?"

"Loxley is free." Robin whispered to her. "He speaks of you, even now. I'll tell you later, Marion." Marion's eyes brightened, alive with happiness. It was the first time he had truly seen her with such optimism.

Much, who had returned from feeding Gisburne's horse, approached them. "You were dreamin', Robin?" Robin quickly turned to him. "Yes, I dreamed that we'll fetch quite a handsome ransom for the king's herald. Has our guest eaten his breakfast?"

"Bread and cheese," de Giscard nodded. "I slept rather well, considering the squalor of this place!"

Little John, still drowsy from the previous night, grumbled. "Well, good for you, Hubert, 'cause your snorin' kept me up for the whole night! By God, you sounded like an angry thunderstorm!"

Robin walked over to Will and Gisburne. "Will, untie Sir Guy. He has a long journey ahead of him."

"You sure about this, Robin?" Will inquired. "What if he breaks his word and comes back to Nottingham?" Robin studied Gisburne's face, and sensed that he was determined to go to France.

"Untie him, Will," Robin insisted. "When he's facing the might of Philip's armies, he'll pray that he was still in Nottinghamshire!"

"Ain't that the honest truth!" Will snickered. He untied Gisburne's bindings and shoved the knight towards his black stallion. Gisburne carefully patted the noble steed and mounted it.

"Fighting for glory and honour," Will scoffed. "I always knew you were a fool, Gisburne, but if you really want to die on a French battlefield, it ain't my place to stop you. Saves us from havin' to do the dirty work!"

Gisburne proudly adjusted his helmet. "I don't expect you to understand, Scarlet," he scowled. "I, for one, choose not to become a vassal of France."

"It won't matter whose vassal we are," Little John remarked, "if the children's tummies are empty because we gave up our food to feed the king's army!" Gisburne ignored his arguments.

Robin approached Gisburne, bearing the sheriff's exquisite sword. "You're to go directly to Southampton, then. Never to return. Will would gladly slit your throat if you go back on your word!"

"I understand, wolfshead," Gisburne noted as he fastened the scabbard onto his armour. "Unlike you and your band of outlaws, I know the value of English honour. Normandy will pledge fealty to King John, you'll see!"

"Have yourself a good death, Gisburne!" Will pointed at him with his dagger. "Remember what I told you: if you don't die over there -- I'll find out! I'll come find you and finish the job myself!" Gisburne shuddered at the threat. Scarlet was crazy enough to do just that, he thought.

"God be with you, Sir Guy," Tuck blessed him. "You're going to need His protection! I don't know how sensible it is to run off to seek glory. All you'll find is death, and likely your own! Sadly, you're a fool, and no amount of prayer's going to change that."

"God save the king," de Giscard announced. His outburst earned him punch in the shoulder from Little John, who was still annoyed that the herald's snoring kept him awake.

"On your way, Sir Guy," Robin bowed, in jest. "Glory and victory await you in France!" Gisburne grunted, and spurred his horse southward. These wolfsheads might mock my dedication, he grimaced, but I intend to protect the king's French interests.

If the king rewards me for my loyal service, he grinned, perhaps I'll become more than a mere steward in this godforsaken shire.

* * *

The sheriff trotted his horse towards the edge of Sherwood Forest, accompanied by a dozen, blue-cloaked men-at-arms from Nottingham. The morning's first threads of sunlight had peaked over the horizon. The spring's promised warmth hadn't arrived in the shire, the sheriff observed. He wrapped his brown, fur-lined robe around him tightly. "God curse this wind," the sheriff complained. "It's supposed to be spring!" 

Ahead of them lay the grasping branches, mysterious shadows and eerie sounds of Sherwood. This was Robin Hood's forest and Nottingham's soldiers knew what would happen to those who dared to invade the Hooded Man's domain.

"The forest – it's haunted, milord!" one of the soldiers chattered. The other men stared cautiously at the woods before them.

"You superstitious fool!" the sheriff barked. "Those are ravens cawing! The forest is dark because of the thick canopy of leaves! The only devils there are Robin Hood, the half-wit, my renegade chaplain and the rest of their rabble!" He spurred his horse forward in a demonstration of confidence. "I'm here, Robin Hood!" the sheriff declared. He removed a leather bag from his saddle and raised it in the air. "I have the ransom."

"I have an arrow aimed at your heart, my lord sheriff," Robin's voice boomed. "I'll have no tricks from you. Set the ransom twenty paces from the edge of the forest. Much will claim it. Only then will I release de Giscard!"

He tossed the bag to the superstitious fool who spoke out of turn. "You there, take this bag twenty paces to the forest like he said!" He shoved the cowering soldier forward, who stumbled fearfully towards the tangle of shrubs, trees and weeds along Sherwood's boundaries. His hands shook as he carefully placed the leather bag on the ground.

He hesitated a moment too long, which prompted Nasir to unleash an arrow from his bow. It landed mere feet from the bag, and the soldier scrambled to the safety of the other soldiers.

"I don't have all day, wolfshead!" the sheriff grumbled impatiently. Much slowly approached the bag, retrieved it and dashed into the forest shrubbery.

"Robin, I have the herald's ransom," Much blurted. Nasir, with an arrow drawn, crouched vigilantly behind a tree trunk. He kept his eyes on the horizon, in case the sheriff had sent mounted soldiers to outflank them. A few yards away to their left, Will waited to intercept anyone who might try to ambush them. Marion, Robin and Little John stood near their valuable prisoner.

"The infidel is your friend?" de Giscard scowled in disgust. "Filthy heathen." Little John punched him in the shoulder again. "You better behave, Hubert. Your snoring cost me a good night's sleep, so you still owe me! Anyway, those 'filthy heathens' still hold Jerusalem. King Richard himself couldn't best them!" Little John's rebuke quickly silenced him.

Marion counted the gold coins in the bag. "Three hundred and fifty, just like we wanted." Robin took the herald to the forest's edge, while Much fetched the herald's horse.

Robin untied de Giscard's wrists and ankles. Much arrived with the horse and held its reins. "And where is my sword?" the herald demanded.

"We talked about this," Robin explained. "While Sir Guy will be using his sword against the French, you're probably going to use your sword against the people of this shire, or those of Lincoln or Leicester. It's a fine sword – not as fine as Gisburne's – but it'll be of more use when we sell it, or melt it down." Marion, Little John and the others laughed as de Giscard – stripped of his pouch of gold, rings, his sword and his honour – mounted his horse.

The herald quickly put on his helmet to cover his embarrassment. "Godless scoundrels and thieves!" he cursed them. "Laugh while you can! Your treachery is costing us the war in France!"

Before de Giscard could prod his horse onward, Robin angrily grabbed the reins. "You really are a fool, de Giscard! The war is already lost – yet you continue to squeeze every penny out of these people! Mark my words: as long as King John continues to squander English money on his French adventures, he'll not see one penny of Nottingham's coffers!" He slapped the horse forward, as the herald galloped towards the Nottingham soldiers.

The sheriff hesitated. Surely, the outlaws had captured Gisburne too? "Where is Gisburne?" the sheriff wondered. He dared not venture too close to Sherwood, and he recognized that he was safest on open ground. "I paid the ransom already!"

"The ransom was for Monsieur de Giscard," Robin explained. "And we allowed Sir Guy to seek his fortune and death in France. Let Philip Augustus deal with him!" The outlaws retreated deep into the forest's interior, with hundreds of gold marks for the shire's common folk.

The sheriff and de Giscard led their small party away from Sherwood Forest and headed north on the road to Nottingham.

"They let Gisburne go?" the sheriff inquired. "What the devil for?"

"This Hooded Man figured that your steward was as good as dead in Normandy," de Giscard smirked. "And your former chaplain, Tuck, presumed that the sin of slitting his throat should fall upon Philip of France!"

"Intriguing," the sheriff thought. "And I suppose the outlaws stripped him of that ornate sword I gave him?"

"No, they didn't," de Giscard revealed. "I don't understand this Robin Hood, or any of them actually. They fed us – it was peasant food, really. We were treated fairly, though I suspect that Will Scarlet is intent on killing your steward someday."

The sheriff noticed that de Giscard no longer had his rings or his purse. "Perhaps your meals were paid for by your belongings. No sword, de Giscard?"

"No, de Rainault," the herald muttered. "They took everything of value, including my sword. Yet your steward was free to depart Sherwood and join our armies in Southampton. With these fresh troops, we shall have success in Normandy, de Rainault! The Angevin Empire will be England's once more."

The sheriff halted their party. "What Angevin Empire?" he scowled at the herald. "Anjou is lost! Brittany is lost! So is the Touraine! Even now, our German and Flemish allies are in disarray. The fate of Normandy dangles by an inexplicable thread of hope. Philip of France needs only to snip it, and His Majesty's _'empire'_ will fall into his lap!" De Giscard, humiliated by the loss of his valuables, chose not to challenge the sheriff's political tirade. The sheriff had bought his freedom with Nottingham gold; he was momentarily in his debt.

The silhouette of Nottingham Castle – several miles ahead of them – emerged from the morning mist. A few farmers had already straggled wearily towards the town's market with their goods.

Robert de Rainault, High Sheriff of Nottingham smirked underneath his helmet. The distant war in France was indeed lost, he mused, but this ridiculous war was an opportunity to use de Giscard's clout to achieve what he had wanted most: the end of Robin Hood and his corrupting influence on the shire's people.

The king's herald owed him a favour and he intended to collect that debt, with interest.


	7. CH 7

A storm had arrived in the shire. The rain had poured since dusk. Throughout Sherwood, there was the rustling sound of raindrops falling on leaves and shrubs. Robin and the other outlaws sought shelter beneath the wide branches of a large oak tree. They had just finished a light dinner of salted meat and bread, and were preparing for a long, drenched night.

Marion yawned and found a comfy spot at the base of the tree, beside Robin and Tuck. She rested her head against Robin's arm. Robin wanted to express his new affection for Marion, but he considered Will's advice. Perhaps it was too soon. She needed time to mourn, even one year later.

"I've hardly enough blanket for myself, Little Flower," Tuck admonished. "Must you steal away the whole thing for yourself?"

"It's cold, Tuck!" Marion protested. Little John had first watch and had found a perch atop an embankment. Nasir and Much rested on one of the tree's protruding roots. There was a bird call, and Will returned from the wilderness. He shoved a space between Tuck and Much.

"Quit shovin', Will," Much grumbled. "There ain't enough space here for both you and Tuck."

"Then complain to Tuck," Will snapped. "He's the one takin' up most of the space, ain't that right, Friar?"

Tuck frowned at the joke, but he moved a little to accommodate Will. "We did well today Robin. We have money for the orphanage, and to buy more food for the shire's village folk. Lord knows they'll need it after the king's plunder of their grain and livestock to feed his armies in France!"

"If Sir Guy thinks he's going to find his fame and fortune in that barren wasteland," Will remarked, "he's in for the shock of his life! If Philip of France hasn't already scorched the countryside, the Normans and the Flemish would have stripped it bare of food. He ain't got a prayer." He recalled past campaigns, where he had to search the ruins of villages and towns for scraps of bread. The endless marching over rough terrain, until the soles of his boots had torn open. There was never enough food, hardly any shelter and shoddy equipment. What he remembered most was the fear: crossing open terrain and hearing the distant thunder of hooves. It sounded like the Four Horsemen had come to pass judgment on the world. Heavily-mailed French knights -- with glorious plumes atop their helmets -- would charge at them with deadly lances and skull-crushing maces. They would run down, trample or impale any foot soldier who had the misfortune of being caught in the open. And for what, he grimaced, so that some English baron or lord could plant his standard atop the burnt battlements of some Norman castle? How many dead soldiers, women and children paid for those brief moments of triumph?

"Will," Much added, "the king's herald wondered if you had seen fightin' in France, or the Crusades. You don't like talkin' about those times, do you?"

"Mind your own business, Much," Tuck cautioned. "It's a private matter for him."

"Do you really think it's hopeless, Will?" Robin inquired. "King John has rallied the Germans and Flanders to the Angevin cause."

Will chuckled at the question. "It don't matter if the king has five thousand or fifty-thousand men -- Philip Augustus will have twice that many, and more cavalry than the Devil himself. When Gisburne sees those legions with their shining armour, and that bloody, golden-flamed banner stampeding towards him ... he'll pray that he was _never_ born!"

Marion immediately sat up, interested at the vivid description. "A golden flame banner, you say? That's the _Oriflamme_, the personal banner of the French king! You've seen Philip of France in battle?"

Will turned away. A part of him wanted to talk about his horrific experiences in battle -- if only to unburden himself of the memories. The screams of the dying tormented him. The death of his wife at the hands of soldiers reminded him of his painful past. It was a curse.

He frowned; he would never forget, no matter how much he tried to bury the guilt.

"Did I say golden flames?" Will pretended. "I don't know, maybe it was white. It was a long time ago, and I ain't got much more to say 'bout all that." He turned his body away from Much and the others. "I'd rather not talk about it."

"I'm sorry, Will," Marion apologized. She had seen the hurt in his eyes. "I didn't mean to pry --"

"It don't matter," Will mumbled, as he fell asleep. "Gisburne's goin' to find his head on a French pike, so that's that."

As the rest of the band slept for the night, Robin lay awake. He remembered what Loxley had told him: what matters is the here and the now. Little John was right when he said that the French wars mean nothing to people who don't have enough to eat. He thought about his past life as an earl's son. All the hunting trips, petty gossip at the earl's court and knightly tournaments seemed meaningless now, but he -- like Gisburne -- were raised to prepare for combat. To serve in a campaign was more than duty to lord and King: it was the hope of all knights to put their training to the ultimate test. Sir Guy felt that his purpose now was to defend John's interests in France, however foolish that may seem.

Loxley's riddles confused him. Robin had cast aside those codes which dictated his life as a nobleman: service, honour and duty. They had value on their own, but the schemes of men often corrupted what they stood for. He had seen more evidence of service, loyalty and honour among this band of outlaws than he had ever seen at Huntingdon Castle or at court in London.

Robin wanted to talk to Marion about his dream and Loxley's riddles, but she was fast asleep. Despite his claims, the past continued to burden Will. But there were lessons in the past, and Loxley wanted him to set aside his life as Huntingdon. Does my past mean nothing to me, Robin wondered.

His eyelids became heavier. He later heard Little John's voice, as Nasir replaced him on the next watch. Tomorrow would be another day as "Herne's Son", however odd that title still seemed to him.

* * *

Hubert de Giscard, the king's herald, spent the night in Nottingham Castle. In the morning, he had summoned a dozen nobles and knights from Leicester and Lincoln to discuss their strategy for the Norman campaigns. The sheriff, who was saddle-sore after a day on horseback, found them in the castle's Great Hall. They were pouring over a large parchment with a map of King John's French possessions throughout northern and southwestern France. He used the term '_possessions_' charitably, since most of those lands were -- de facto -- under Philip's effective control. Only a few isolated fortresses in the region secured English access for the king's armies.

One of the nobles -- a bearded man in leather, studded armour -- moved a wooden block on the map towards Lisieux, one of the key English fortresses that held against the French. Philip had laid siege to it for months. "If we strike now, we can relieve the Norman garrison, and ensure that we have control of the Paris road!"

Another man (he appeared to be a knight with Lincoln's coat of arms on his tunic) shook his head emphatically. "That simply won't do, my lord. Philip will have a screen of cavalry throughout the countryside. Our men-at-arms will be cut to bits on open fields!"

"Send in the German knights," de Giscard suggested. "They'll punch a hole through Philip's cavalry, and buy us time to move our forces into place to lift the siege." The lords and knights nodded politely as a courtesy, but they knew that this herald of the king would never see the frontlines.

The sheriff found the herald contemptible, but at least he knew his place. These lords, however, were nothing but fools in fine armour. They actually believed that they could reclaim their fiefdoms in France, dethrone Philip Augustus (one of Europe's great monarchs) and turn the whole country into a mere vassalage.

"Your thoughts, my Lord Sheriff," the bearded noble inquired. "Should we send in the Germans to test Philip's defences, or should we lift the siege immediately?"

The sheriff had no time for martial debates. Half of these nobles had never faced a French army, and much of the English troops were ill-trained and poorly-equipped. "With all due respect, my lords," the sheriff smiled graciously, "you must acquire the funds to transport, equip and feed these soldiers before you can entertain thoughts of unseating Philip from Paris."

"de Rainault is a pessimist," de Giscard scoffed, "but he does raise a point. Even now, the sheriff's steward marches to Southampton to join the king's army. They will need supplies, and we shall need revenue to pay for it. Perhaps a small raise in the scutage will address that problem." Scutage was the levy which nobles paid in lieu of service during wartime. If they paid the tax, they wouldn't have to go to the frontlines to fulfil their military obligations to the Crown.

"You would spark a revolt," the sheriff mocked. "The nobles would resist, surely! I'm having trouble repairing the roads, let alone raising funds for the king's campaigns. God help us if Llywelyn of Wales decides to cause trouble!"

de Giscard sighed at the sheriff's complaints. "Is this another opportunity for you to blame Robin Hood for your inadequate financial support for the French campaigns?' Some of the nobles laughed at the joke.

"It is not so amusing, my lords," the sheriff replied forcefully, "when you consider that the money that wolfshead has stolen from the king could have been used to pay for the resources you require to retake Normandy!" The rebuke prompted the nobles to remain silent. Without more funds, they agreed, King John may be tempted to raise the levies.

"I beg your leave, my lords," de Giscard bowed his head. "I have matters to discuss with the sheriff. I wish you godspeed." He turned to the bearded lord. "My regards to the Earl." The herald accompanied the sheriff to a study room down the hall.

A robed clerk was busily scribbling on a scroll, and he was surprised when the sheriff entered the room. "Get out!" the sheriff barked. The clerk grabbed the scrolls and scurried away. The sheriff checked if anyone was within earshot of the room before closing the door.

"Can't this wait, de Rainault," de Giscard groaned. "Unless we plan our strategy for this summer, Normandy will still be in French hands by the autumn!" The sheriff found it annoying that the herald refused to address him by his formal title.

"It's the matter of your ransom," the sheriff began. "Nottingham's coffers are now short 350 marks ... marks which were destined for the king's coffers."

de Giscard waved away the concern. "Bah! I told you already that I shall compensate you for the ransom."

The sheriff seemed disinterested, as he examined the sparsely-furnished study room. "I am now also deprived of my steward, which leaves me with the unnecessary task of finding a suitable replacement."

de Giscard paused, as he tried to figure out what the sheriff wanted. "What exactly are you saying, de Rainault?"

"When I send this month's taxes -- under heavy guard," the sheriff continued, "the records will show that Nottingham is 350 marks short. Questions will be asked. I will have no choice but to explain to the king that I was forced to use part of the taxes to purchase your freedom from the outlaws. That won't look good for me, and it certainly won't look good for you in Westminster."

de Giscard shuddered at the thought of explaining his embarrassing capture in Sherwood. "No, I suppose it wouldn't be good at all."

"I propose that you provide me with 700 marks," the sheriff stated calmly. "I will cover the deficit in the royal coffers. Perhaps it won't be necessary to inform Westminster that 350 marks were even missing in the first place."

"Seven hundred marks!" de Giscard blurted. "That's twice my ransom! Are you insane? Where shall I come up with that kind of money?"

"I see it as a fair exchange," the sheriff smirked. "You cost me money for your ransom, plus the cost of replacing my steward, whom you've recruited for this French misadventure! I shall have to pay Gisburne's replacement after all. It wasn't Gisburne who thought of marching straight into Sherwood Forest, was it?"

The herald relented. He knew he was being blackmailed, but he was in the sheriff's debt. He did pay for his freedom, and it would cost money to replace Sir Guy's services. "I'm responsible for some discretionary monies," de Giscard muttered. The sheriff had humbled him. "You shall have these funds two fortnights from now. I will send a messenger to London at once ... my Lord Sheriff."

The sheriff grinned at de Giscard's sudden sign of respect. "There, you see, de Giscard," he explained, "it's that sort of resourcefulness that is needed. It's not mere men or money that will win you Normandy. Oh, and I have another small request."

de Giscard prepared to leave. "What now, de Rainault?"

"Those nobles out there discussed the use of mercenaries," the sheriff revealed, "Soldiers who would make up for the shortfall in manpower. Welsh archers, Flemish crossbowmen and such. I want a dozen of them. On loan, mind you ... you can have them back when I'm done with them."

de Giscard closed the door again. "Mercenaries?" he whispered. "Those scum! They're in reserve at the moment, as a last resort. They're loyal to no one. They value money above all else. They are without honour. Wretched, foul animals! What in God's name do you want with them?"

"Like you said, de Giscard," the sheriff stated, "they are animals without honour, loyal only to money. Such men will do anything if paid well enough. I'll use them to hunt down and kill Robin Hood and his men. And this is the best part: it won't cost you a penny. Consider it my 'personal contribution' to the war effort."

Although the sheriff had blackmailed him, de Giscard couldn't help but grin at their arrangement. Seven hundred marks was a small price to pay for the death of Robin Hood.


	8. CH 8

Baron de Maldison, a thickly bearded nobleman in studded leather armour, trotted his horse warily along the edge of the forest. The sun shone brightly in the sky, and birds chirped happily in the spring woodlands. The Sheriff of Nottingham had warned him that the forest was infested with cutthroats and highwaymen, so he decided to follow a less-traveled road southward. With half a dozen men-at-arms, the lord believed that he had enough protection. He assumed that de Rainault was merely paranoid, and that he was using this mythical 'Hooded Man' as an excuse for his incompetence.

A few yards away, Much whistled a bird call. Little John and Will, shielded behind thick foliage around the road, quietly approached the lord's party from the rear. Tuck emerged from behind a tree and blocked the nobleman's progress.

"Good morning, milord," Tuck remarked. "Perhaps you could spare a donation for the shire's orphanage before you go on your way?" He held out his hand, expecting an immediate payment.

The baron's captain of the guards, a foul-looking Norman in the red-and-yellow livery of his master, placed his hand on the hilt of his sword. "Step aside, priest!" he ordered. "This is Baron de Maldison, lord of Angers and captain of the Earl of Leicester's armies. Make way!"

An arrow thudded on a tree beside the baron's head. Will punched one of the guards from behind, and brandished his sword to face the men-at-arms. Two guards charged him, but Marion batted a quarterstaff into their stomachs. Both guards yelped in anguish. Little John roared like a possessed ogre and knocked three more guards into the ground. The baron drew his sword and turned his brown steed to face his assailants, but before he could muster a counterattack, Robin and Nasir fired two more arrows at his feet.

"If you had simply given a small donation," Tuck reprimanded, "we would have let you go on." He seized the bridle of the baron's horse and pulled him towards Robin.

"Throw down your arms!" Robin demanded. The rest of the baron's men were terrified at the efficiency of these outlaws, and they quickly tossed aside their pikes and swords. Nasir swiftly cut the baron's purse from his waistcoat. Tuck seemed slightly disappointed when he inspected its contents.

"Only 60 marks, Robin," Tuck replied. "'Tis a shame. Still, it's better than nothing."

Marion curtsied before the baron, in mock respect. "Welcome to the domain of Sherwood, my lordship. We thank you for your contribution."

"You're Leaford's daughter," the baron noted. "So you've taken up with these wolfsheads again, and become this outlaw's strumpet!" He glared at Robin, whom he regarded as a traitor to the nobility.

Will angrily tugged the baron from his mount. "That's no way to talk to a lady! Now apologize -- or I'll leave you for dead right here in the woods, you Norman bastard!" He drew a dagger and placed it against de Maldison's gut.

"It's alright, Will," Marion stated. "The baron is the Earl of Leicester's military captain. I know the things he's done to the people of Leicester. God only knows why he's here in Nottinghamshire!"

"Well, it'll be hard for him to be a military captain," Robin added, "without his fine suit of armour!" The rest of the outlaws laughed approvingly at the suggestion. The armour, a well-crafted leather jacket with metal studs, must be worth at least 200 marks. The baron struggled briefly as Little John yanked off his leather armour.

"Sadly," Tuck said, "we have no venison -- again -- for dinner. I doubt that we'll be able to provide an adequate meal for a Norman baron!"

Robin considered their predicament. They could ransom the baron, who would fetch as much gold as the herald -- and likely more. He also knew that the Earl of Leicester had committed many soldiers and funds to the English campaigns in Normandy; the capture of his military commander would incur the wrath of every lord from Yorkshire to Derbyshire, and enrage the king's court. The ransom would not be worth the unwanted attention.

"It's too dangerous to keep him as our prisoner," Robin cautioned. "The Earl -- and every lord in the region -- would send armed men in search of him."

"But think of the ransom, Robin!" Will insisted. "If Hubert the herald was worth 350 marks, the Earl's captain would be worth at least 400, or more!"

Nasir seemed to be contemplating something of great importance, and Robin had learned that their Saracen friend had wisdom to match his skills with a sword. "What do you think, Nasir? Is his ransom worth the risk?"

"The money means nothing," he stated calmly, "if the lords seek revenge on their peoples. The Earl is his master: the Earl would be honour-bound to search for him." He toyed with his throwing knives. "It would cause problems; the risk is too great."

"Nasir's right," Marion agreed. "The baron's not worth the trouble. He was traveling from Nottingham -- he must have some information we can use."

"Tell us what we want to know, my lord," Robin ordered, "and we shall set you and your men free. I'll even let you ride out of Sherwood on your horse." The baron sighed hopelessly, because he had no choice but to cooperate.

An hour later, the humiliated Baron de Maldison and his guards traveled southward to Leicester. He had told Robin about his war council with de Giscard, the financial difficulties of the French campaigns and the possible use of foreign mercenaries in reserve.

"The ransom would have solved a lot of people's problems," Will grumbled, "but I suppose it ain't worth aggravatin' the earl's friends, or invitin' trouble to Sherwood." Nasir smiled at Will's admission. Scarlet was stubborn, he observed, but he also appreciated the value of cooperation. In Sherwood, that was a matter of survival.

Marion thought about the great expense of assembling a grand army in Southampton, hiring vessels to take them to safe harbours in Brittany and Normandy, and supplying them throughout the campaign. "King John will have no choice but to raise levies throughout England," she realized. "He'll bleed Nottingham's coffers dry, as well as those of every shire in the land!"

"And the people will go hungry and suffer because of it all!" Little John growled. "The Norman barons care only about recapturing their lands in France, while their people are worked to death to feed their armies."

The band crossed a stream and avoided the main roads -- just in case the sheriff had sent a scouting patrol to ferret them out. The recent capture of the king's herald had made him the fool of Nottingham again, Robin smirked, and he would be plotting his revenge.

"Robin," Will began, "the baron said the king is hiring '_mercy fairies_' to fight for him in France. I don't see how fairies will do him any good against the French. Does he think the French are fearful of spirits?"

Little John and Will laughed at Much's misunderstanding. "He said '_mercenaries_', Much," Little John remarked. "The king doesn't have enough men to fight Philip, so he has to buy the services of soldiers for hire." Nasir had gone well ahead of them to scout for any foresters or soldiers.

"How many did he say?" Will demanded. "And why mercenaries?"

"The baron didn't know," Robin replied. He hopped over a log, while Tuck wisely chose to walk around it. Much and Marion had raced ahead to their camp, deep within Sherwood. "It could be in the hundreds, perhaps a thousand. It will take time to bring them all to Normandy: archers from Wales, Scot swordsmen, crossbowmen from Flanders ..."

"Fiends!" Will snarled. "They're scum of the earth, loyal to no one. Not to the king -- no one! Why would the king want to fight alongside them! All they want is money, and pillage."

"The situation in Normandy must be worse than we thought," Robin suggested. He looked up into the sky; dusk was about to fall. "We'd better hurry back to camp. The moon won't be out tonight."

"I promise you this, Robin," Will muttered. "If any mercenary is stupid enough to come through Sherwood, I'll make him regret he ever left his homeland. I swear it!" He scampered ahead to camp.

"Will seems to be on edge," Robin noted. "He was none too pleased that we let Baron de Maldison go."

"That's just Will Scarlet bein' Scarlet," Little John admitted. "He despises the Norman lords: the sheriff, Gisburne, the lot of them."

Robin paused beside a tree. "Does he think I'm being easy on the nobles -- because I was once one of them?" Little John grinned, sensing that Robin was still uneasy about being Herne's Son."

"You havin' been one of them is an advantage for us," Little John noted. "You understand them."

"Aye," Tuck agreed. He had recently caught up with them, and was catching his breath. "You know how they think. Why they do what they do. You've seen how the king's court works. You knew it wasn't worth the risk to keep de Maldison as our hostage. Tell me this, Robin: if you were still the earl's son, and we waylaid you and took you hostage ... what would the Earl of Huntingdon have done?"

Robin thought about the scenario. "Hmm, well he would have sent out patrols, bloodhounds, mounted guards. If that weren't enough, he would petition the neighbouring lords and appealed to Westminster for help. Sherwood would be crawling with soldiers within a week!"

Little John chuckled heartily and slapped Robin on the back. "You see, Robin. That is our advantage! To the people of this shire, you're their hope. They believe in you, what you stand for. They don't care that you were an earl's son: that's in the past. They see what you do now. They believe in you." Robin was relieved that the others didn't seem to bear any ill will towards him because of his noble birth.

"If Will despises anyone more than Normans," Little John added gravely, "it's mercenaries." Little John and Tuck exchanged morbid glances, uncertain if they should elaborate.

"It was mercenary soldiers," Tuck confessed, "who killed his wife, a long time ago. It bothers him still, to this day. Poor, troubled soul!"

"He ain't joking," Little John nodded. "If Scarlet comes across a mercenary here -- he'll slit his throat. Nothing we do will stop him." They arrived at the camp, where Marion had already begun to prepare their stew dinner. Will crouched in the shadows of a large tree, obsessing over his dagger.

Robin wanted to believe that Will had put aside his reservations about a former nobleman taking on Loxley's mantle. Loxley was a commoner; he was heir to an earldom. Despite Little John and Tuck's assurances, he didn't think that Will Scarlet would ever be comfortable with the idea of Robert of Huntingdon as the "people's hero".

* * *

The sun settled below the darkening horizon. Gisburne caught a whiff of salty air – or, so he wanted to believe. Soon I'll be at the army's camp, he thought. Several days had passed since the wolfsheads' ambush. He felt like an idiot. The sheriff had warned him to keep all of his coins in his boots. "They'll be looking for a purse, you imbecile," the sheriff had grumbled. Gisburne did place a few coins in his boots, but he proudly slung his money purse in full view. He wanted the travellers on the road to know that Sir Guy of Gisburne had improved his station. He was the King's man now. 

Robin Hood and the outlaws quickly changed that impression. He was fortunate that they didn't appreciate the value of his well-crafted sword, too. He would be penniless if he didn't keep those coins in his boots. Gisburne studied the narrow dirt road ahead. I must be in Berkshire by now, he thought.

Yesterday, he was lucky to come across a village tavern for a meal and a place to stay for the night. The fair-haired barmaid was willing enough, too, Gisburne grinned wolfishly. She was Saxon, but he didn't make such distinctions when it came to women.

He feared that his luck had run out tonight. A thick canopy of branches and leaves encircled the narrow road. He expected a fork in the road soon: one to London, and another old Roman road that led to the coast. Perhaps the barmaid didn't know the difference between north and south!

Gisburne thought he heard a sound in the forest. It could be just a deer, he scoffed. Then he heard it again. It was no deer. The steps were methodical. He might not be able to sense every vagabond or cutthroat in the woods, but he knew the sound of a horse.

He gripped the hilt of his fine sword. "You may taste blood tonight," he muttered to his sword. He led his steed slowly down the road, but he firmly held its reins. Whoever was behind him had been on his trail for a while. A horse neighed, and he heard another set of hoof steps. Two riders? They would be upon him within minutes.

Gisburne saw a spot ahead where the road had widened slightly. It would be his only chance to spin his horse around to defend himself. They must be cutthroats, he grimaced. If I'm to die tonight, he vowed, these dogs would pray to God that they never crossed my path.

Gisburne turned his horse around to face northward. "I'm a soldier of the king!" Gisburne proclaimed, as he drew his sword from its scabbard. The raised blade shimmered in the dusk moonlight. "Show yourselves, I command you!"

Two horsemen appeared from the thick foliage. They were no cutthroats. Gisburne's face paled with fright. Both had square-like helmets, with only a thin slit for their eyes. Their surcoats were white with blood-red crosses.

"Only the Pope may command us," the lead knight declared. "But I understand your caution. These woods are rife with scoundrels who fear neither God nor king." They were Knights Templar, among the fiercest warriors in Christendom … and among the most feared. They controlled vast wealth throughout Europe and pledged loyalty to Rome (and only to Rome).

The knights removed their helmets as a further sign of goodwill. The elder knight was middle-aged with short brown hair and a wicked-looking scar across his left ear. He was likely a veteran of King Richard's crusade in the Holy Land. He scowled, unimpressed with Gisburne's brash attitude. The younger of the two, however, trotted forward to greet him.

"I suggest we make camp," he offered. This knight appeared to be around Gisburne's age. "There will be strength in numbers. We are on our way to the Temple Church in London, where the Master prepares for a crusade against the Moors in Spain. And you, sir knight, what of your destination?"

Gisburne slowly took off his helmet to return the courtesy. "I am Sir Guy of Gisburne, a captain in the armies of King John. I am to go to the coast for the army's departure to Normandy. We are to secure the king's holdings in France, before Philip of France claims them."

The elder knight huffed in disgust. "The trivial matters of men."

"Don't mind him," the younger knight replied. "He has seen one too many wars ... and one too many deaths." He warily glanced at the dark road behind them. "But let us make haste. These woods are not safe. There should be a clearing ahead. We can stop there for the night."

At the campfire, Gisburne was grateful that the knights had a loaf of bread and some wine to share with him. He would have preferred to travel alone, but he could not deny that protection in numbers was safer. Later, he watched as the two knights knelt before their upright swords planted in the dirt. Muttering their evening prayers, he sighed.

Gisburne was not a man of faith, but he understood the single-minded dedication of these warrior-monks. To fight for a single purpose, a goal. The infidel leader, Saladin, slaughtered all Templars he captured in Palestine because he knew their zealous ruthlessness in battle. The sheriff said that men of obsession are blinded by such a narrow vision, but Gisburne disagreed. They fight for God; I fight for the king. Service is the calling of a knight. Duty is what defines us. Without it, what becomes of us? Soon, the embers of their little fire faded into nothingness.

In the morning, Gisburne stomped out their breakfast fire into the ground. They mounted their horses and hastily departed for their journey. The three knights travelled together for a few miles until they arrived at a fork in the road. The beginnings of the Roman road to the coast beckoned.

"May the Lord guide you to safety," the younger knight raised his hand to bid goodbye. "May you find victory in France, if God wills it." The elder knight said nothing and abruptly put on his menacing helmet.

"God be with you, Templar knights," Gisburne replied. These awkward formalities were the domain of men like the sheriff, but he supposed that as a king's man, he would need to be accustomed to these niceties. In moments, the Poor Knights of the Temple of Solomon galloped east towards London, and possibly to certain death against the Moorish heathens.

Gisburne recalled the sheriff's warning: that he would arrive in Paris with his head atop a French pike. The Roman road had widened considerably with the thinning woodlands. Gisburne paused his horse atop a hill. He couldn't spot the sea, but another day's ride and he should be at the coast. There, he would see for himself what the Fates had planned for the English army.

I might share the same end as those zealous Templars, he shuddered. He spurred his charger towards the unknown …


	9. CH 9

Although the brisk wind hinted at a late spring and there was no sign of the king's deer in over a week, Little John smiled. He, Will and Nasir were on the road to the village of Cornley. They were flush with Norman gold and they were going to fetch supplies and food for some of the poorer serfs. They also planned to use the Norman baron's studded armour for bartering.

"What good's a baron's armour to a bunch of serfs?" Will wondered. "It's not like any of them are goin' to fight in Normandy!"

Little John shrugged. He knew that the village blacksmith could use the armour's metal studs and the spare leather could be used to make more practical items, but he chose not to bicker. Will had been in a sour mood lately, ever since they learned about the presence of mercenaries in Nottinghamshire. He lost Elena to mercenary soldiers, and for that reason alone Little John felt it was pointless to try to persuade him to think of something else.

The dirt road became wider and they spotted the grooves of the village's carts, which had likely returned from the market. Nasir suddenly stopped, and he traced one of the grooves in the dirt.

"Something the matter, Nasir?" Little John asked. Nasir didn't reply and continued to study the distant road ahead.

After several minutes, Nasir stood up. "The grooves are not fresh. They have already been filled with rainwater. You say the village's wagon goes to market every morning?" Little John nodded. He trusted the Saracen's instincts: if Nasir sensed that something was amiss, he was usually right.

"So the tracks ain't fresh," Will said. "Maybe the wagon master had too much to drink the night before and missed market day. We should get to the village, do our business and get back to camp before the sheriff's men see us." Nasir and Little John agreed, and they continued to walk towards Cornley.

A few birds chirped in the leafy canopy above. It was close to noon. By now, they would have heard the carefree laughter of Cornley's children, who would come to greet them. The rumble of the millwheel would creak from the edge of the forest. Sometimes, the village chieftain would welcome them with open arms … and offer a table at the village tavern.

They were almost out of the forest, but they heard nothing. No voices, no millwheel and no children.

Will cautiously gripped the hilt of his sword. "Something's not right. It's too quiet." Little John brandished his quarterstaff, while Nasir quietly drew one of his throwing knives.

They left the shelter of the forest, and came across the village of Cornley – what was left of it.

The miller's house had been torched and the miller lay dead in front of his door. The roofs of almost every hut had been set alight. Black smoke lingered around the tavern. They heard horses in the distance, but they couldn't see them. Little John ran to the side of two more men, who lay motionless beside the tavern.

"They're dead," he said.

"Who did this?" Will demanded. He heard the hooves of horses again, but the smoke prevented them from seeing anything beyond a few feet. He heard the scream of a woman and immediately darted into the choking smoke.

"Will!" Little John coughed, but it was useless. Will had disappeared. "The fool will get us all killed." Nasir merely grimaced, and raced after his friend.

Little John heard a cry behind him. When he spun around, a wild-looking man with unkempt hair charged at him with an axe. He looked like a Celt: his face was painted with bluish, fierce streaks and he was draped in animal skins. Little John nimbly avoided the warrior's initial chop and speared the staff into his attacker's abdomen. When his attacker doubled over, Little John drove the quarterstaff into the man's skull. Two more attackers – one with a shoddy sword and another with a spear – lunged towards him. He was outnumbered, but Little John would give no ground. He let out such a loud roar, that several birds fluttered away from their nesting sites in the forest.

Little John's attackers realized that they made a grave mistake.

Several houses away, Will scampered from door to door. He heard the woman's scream again. He angrily brushed the smoke away from his face, and stumbled over three more bodies. They appeared to be a young family. When he reached a clearing, he spotted the silhouette of a horseman in the smoke. The wind began to clear away some of the smoke, which revealed another body.

A fair-haired girl – perhaps she was only 15 or 16 – lay still on the ground. Her clothes were dishevelled and her throat had been cut. It still bled. Will heard someone slowly walking behind him and he drew his sword, with another hand on his dagger.

"The Saxon wench put up a fight," the man gloated, oblivious to Will. "But I had my sport." These men wore no livery Will could recognize, but their weapons weren't those of cutthroats or robbers.

Mercenaries, Will snarled to himself. He kept repeating the word, as if it were a curse. Such men dishonoured his wife and killed her. They deserved no mercy: he would give them no quarter now.

The man spun around and narrowly escaped a killing blow from Will's sword. In the distance, he could hear Little John calling out for Nasir. The mercenary drew a longsword, and Will guessed that he had been recruited from the highlands of Scotland. Their swords clashed, and Will immediately knew that the Scot was no peasant. He was a skilled soldier – likely hired to fight in the Norman campaigns. In the distance, Little John let out another terrifying roar. This momentarily distracted the swordsman, who turned his head towards the sound. Will found an opening and lunged his dagger deep into the man's stomach. The Scot spat a mouthful of blood, and slumped into the ground.

"Little John!" Will yelled. He feared that the giant had been subdued, but he spotted his friend's shadow through the thinning smoke. On the ground were the bodies of two mercenaries who had dared to challenge Sherwood's giant.

Another man, with long blond locks and a horned helmet, charged at Will with a long pike. Will, who had fought better-skilled pikemen in France, quickly parried the Dane's thrust with his sword and drove a dagger into his attacker's neck.

"Danes, Scots, Celts …" Will grunted. "King John's hired everyone to fight for him!" The smoke cleared and they spotted two more bodies, with arrows in their backs. Nasir had used the smoke and chaos to his advantage and picked off two more mercenaries. The Saracen, with drawn bow and arrow, knelt beside his friends and scanned the village for any movements.

A horse neighed, and Will finally spotted the elusive horseman. The soldier wore a poorly mended leather vest, a helmet and had several missing teeth. He taunted at them with his broken grin and steered his horse northward.

"Nasir!" Little John blurted. "We can't let him get away!" Nasir dropped his bow, took out a throwing knife and flung it at the horseman.

"You should have used the bow, Nasir," Will assumed. "Ain't no way you could have gotten him." He spoke too soon, because they heard a shriek of pain. Nasir had hit his mark, and Little John chuckled at his friend's deadly accuracy.

"If the bastard's still alive," Will said, "we can find out what they're up to!" He hauled the fallen horseman up by his shoulders. "Who sent you? Why are you here in Nottingham! Talk, you bloody devil!" The mercenary cursed in his native language and took his last breath.

"It's no use, Will," Little John sighed, "He's already dead. We must get back to Sherwood and tell Robin. We don't know how many of them are around, and the sheriff's men will spot the fires. The village will be crawling with Nottingham soldiers!"

Will appeared to be possessed, snarling at any sound or movement in the village.

"Those who did this are now dead," Nasir concluded. "They must have arrived here last night." He knelt on the main dirt road through Cornley. "Four or five horses. Ten men or more. Heading towards Nottingham."

Will wanted to fight more attackers, but he realized that it was no longer safe to stay in Cornley. "Mercenary scum," he muttered as he stormed into the forest. Deep in the woods, they came across a dozen survivors … mostly women, children and old men. They confirmed that a band of soldiers arrived in the night, drunk with ale and looking for pillage.

"Did you see my daughter?" one woman pleaded. "She had fair hair …"

"She's dead," Will said. "I killed the man who –" He couldn't complete the sentence. All he could think of was Elena.

Little John frowned at the spires of smoke in the distance. These soldiers should be fighting Philip's armies in Normandy, not terrorizing the shire. "And the king wonders why the village folk don't care about the war in France."

Will, with his sword still drawn, quickened his pace. "I swear to you, John, if I see one of those bastards in Sherwood, I'll slit his throat! Pigs like that don't deserve to breathe!"

Nasir stood motionless, warily guarding the path behind them. "He mourns his wife," he said. "He is filled with rage. We must mind him." Little John patted his Saracen friend on the back.

He's right, Little John thought. When the rage took hold of Will Scarlet, he could be unpredictable.

His recklessness might put the band in harm's way – or, the fool might get himself killed.

* * *

Alice, chambermaid of Nottingham Castle, hoisted the hem of her skirts as she climbed the stairs towards the castle. "Sentry! Sound the alarm!" she yelled. "The town gates have been breached! Summon the household guards!" 

The two sentries ignored her at first. Alice had spent every day this week atop the castle ramparts, silently watching the distant horizon for news from Normandy. The senior man-at-arms reprimanded her on the first day, but she insisted that she expected a messenger at any moment. She had believed that France was no more than two days' travel, and the guards joked that she probably believed that Guy of Gisburne had already captured Paris all by himself. As the days passed, they became accustomed to her presence on the castle walls. In fact, the castle's household were a family, and they had much in common. Most were poor, and many were born and raised in the shire's villages and hamlets. There was some pride in working for the Lord High Sheriff of Nottingham, as well as sense of security behind his castle walls.

This day was different. There was a fight in the marketplace, and one shopkeeper had died. About a dozen, filthy-looking soldiers – three of them mounted on horses – defiantly marched towards the main castle. The two sentries spotted the chaos in the market below and raced to the watchtower. They frantically rang the bell, and dozens of blue-liveried soldiers swarmed into the marketplace.

"Not in the market, you fools!" the older sentry barked at the men below. "To the castle! They're going to the castle!"

Alice nearly stumbled on the last step and pulled open the doors to the great hall of Nottingham Castle. The sheriff was talking to Walter, the captain of the guard who had – reluctantly – assumed many of Gisburne's duties.

"I've been meanin' to inquire, milord," Walter asked cautiously, with his eyes lowered out of respect for his master, "I have carried out Sir Guy's duties this past week and –"

The sheriff snickered at what the captain was implying. "Ah, a man of ambition. God knows you have twice the brains of Gisburne, if you only had twice the breeding." Walter was visibly disappointed and the sheriff explained further. "You may be the son of a Crusader, but you are not highborn. Think of the precedent: to be hired based on merit! How unnatural! God has assigned each of us a lot in life. The Almighty has granted me the unfortunate duty of sifting through courtiers, squires and other miserable souls to find a suitable steward." He threw the letters of recommendation impatiently onto the table beside him. "Half of these idiots have never served as stewards. They joust in tournaments and they call it soldiering! And the king expects to reclaim Normandy with these imbeciles?"

Alice scampered towards the sheriff and clumsily curtsied before him. "Beggin' your pardon, Your Worshipfulness …"

"Alice!" the sheriff growled. "For the last time, there is no word from Normandy. I don't expect news from Normandy for months! I doubt that Gisburne or the king's army has left England yet!"

"No, milord," she rambled, trying to catch her breath, "Soldiers … they killed a man in the market … they're coming this way! And the village of Cornley is in flames!"

The sheriff cared little about a death in the market (people died in the shire every day), but the villages of the shire belonged to him. In fact, they belonged to the king – but he was the Sheriff of Nottingham. The king could fight for the scorched earth of Normandy; Nottingham was Robert de Rainault's domain. Cornley was under his protection, and the rabble would expect him to assert his authority, and to avenge its destruction.

"What did these soldiers look like?" the sheriff asked. Alice described a horde of foreign-looking invaders: some had horned helmets, others spoke strange tongues and a few wore hideous war paint on their faces. They didn't wear the familiar coat of arms of the local nobility in the surrounding countryside.

"The mercenaries, milord," Walter said.

"God curse them!" the sheriff replied. "I feared this might happen. They're animals! Have your men ready. You know what to do." Walter disappeared through an alcove and into a passageway. Alice stood meekly before the sheriff, who was annoyed at her intrusion.

He returned to the centre table to sort through the letters of recommendation for Gisburne's replacement. "Go on with your business, woman!" he snorted. "Have you not chores to do?"

Alice bowed and was about to exit the great hall when a pair of men threw open the doors. She gasped in terror.

Two bearded soldiers in horned helmets – one with a staff, the other with a spear – grimaced as they walked into the hall. One leered at Alice and winked at her. Four more soldiers in tattered leather vests soon arrived with a stout Scotsman, who carried a large broadsword. Alice looked frantically for Walter and the rest of Nottingham's soldiers, but they were nowhere in sight. Before she could flee to the outer courtyard, about a dozen or more mercenaries blocked the great doors. The last man to enter wore studded leather armour and had several days' growth on his beard. One of the soldiers, a Celt with blue paint streaked across his face, grabbed Alice's arm.

"I'll take her for payment, Alain," he laughed, addressing the man with the studded armour. The sheriff assumed that this Alain was the mercenary captain. Alain cursed at him and boxed his ear. The Celt yelped like a hound and let go of Alice.

"Enough of this!" the sheriff demanded. He showed no fear and strolled within a few paces of the ruffians. "I am Robert de Rainault, Sheriff of Nottingham." He studied Alain's leather gauntlets, which appeared to be mismatched. The left hand was covered in a poorly fashioned foot soldier's gauntlet, but his right hand was made of high-quality material and bore a woven black and yellow coat of arms.

"You served the Count of Flanders," the sheriff noticed, intrigued that a common mercenary would cling to the symbol of his former lord.

The lead mercenary gave no immediate reply, and took off his helmet. "I am Alain of Mons, knight of Flanders. I was summoned here by John of England's little boy, Monsieur de Giscard. I serve but one master now." He rubbed the tips of his fingers together, indicating his desire for money. Alice withdrew safely behind the sheriff.

The sheriff adjusted the chain of office around his neck and glanced warily at the alcoves around him. "Your men killed someone in the market. My market." He scowled at the cohort of mercenaries. They were scum, and smelled like they had slept in the stables.

"These peasants are dogs," the Scotsman in the band sneered. The cohort laughed at the insult.

"Yes – but they are _my_ dogs," the sheriff replied. "Some of your men attacked the village of Cornley. The villages in this shire are under my protection."

"Your villages need better protection," replied the Dane with a spear. The sheriff permitted their insults, as he carefully examined each soldier. Some had fresh cuts and wounds, and it was obvious that they were either involved in the market slaying or in the plunder of Cornley the night before.

"Those of you who were in Cornley, step forward," the sheriff announced. He expected no response, and they gave him none. The sheriff tugged at his chain of office, and in moments, dozens of armed Nottingham soldiers filled every alcove and passageway. While the other mercenaries began to panic, Alain merely grinned.

"I see you are no fool," Alain observed. One of the mercenaries, who suspected (correctly) that his friends were about to surrender him to the sheriff, drew a dagger and charged at the sheriff. A crossbowman appeared from a darkened alcove and shot the man in the back, killing him a few steps from the sheriff's feet. Alain placed a hand on the hilt of his sword, but the sheriff drew a dagger from his robes and pointed it at the mercenary's heart. Nottingham soldiers surrounded them: there was no escape.

"Your men may be loyal to your money," the sheriff announced. "But my men are loyal to me. In this castle, my word is law. I rule here! Give me the men who were in Cornley, and we can discuss my plans for you. Refuse me – and the lot of you will hang from the castle walls by dusk." Alain gave an order in Flemish and the horde shoved three men into the centre of the hall.

"Walter," the sheriff began, "seize those men! Tell the executioner to prepare the gallows. The people must be assured that the sacking of any village in this shire will not go unpunished." A half-dozen Nottingham soldiers grappled with the three condemned men, who pleaded in vain for mercy.

"No more games, my lord," Alain declared. "What do you want of us?" The sheriff turned his back to the mercenaries and returned to the table strewn with letters.

"You've heard of the Hooded Man?" the sheriff inquired, his eyes fixated on the letters. "His band of outlaws steal the king's gold – gold destined to pay for His Majesty's campaign in Normandy." The ruffians howled at the remark, well aware that the English were losing the war. The sheriff remained neutral. "I want Robin and his band dead. All of them."

"Unlike your men," Alain remarked, "my soldiers will do their job well." He rubbed his fingers together again. "That is, if you pay us the right price." A servant arrived with a casket full of gold marks.

The sheriff continued to read the letters. "There's enough gold there to make you and your 'soldiers' very wealthy men. Kill Robin Hood and you will have all that, and perhaps the favour of King John himself. I can provide you with horses and supplies. But if you sack another village, I will hang the lot of you."

"I am at your service, my lord," Alain jested as he bowed. The rest of the cohort grumbled loudly, but they left the hall without incident.

"Unless I bid you here, you and your men are not welcome within the castle walls," the sheriff said, as an afterthought. "If they value their lives, they will stay outside the castle." For a moment, the sheriff sensed that Alain had taken offence at the order.

Alain of Mons was a knight of Flanders and had once fought Philip Augustus' armies in the Touraine. Once, he was welcome in proud, noble houses. The wars had taken their toll on him and he found profit to be a more willing mistress. He abandoned his service to counts and barons, choosing the security of coins and jewels. But, he was a knight and he always remained loyal to the House of Flanders. Alain put on his helmet and left the great hall of Nottingham Castle.

When they left, Walter returned to the sheriff's table. "The scoundrels who sacked Cornley will hang by dusk."

"Excellent," the sheriff noted. "Have the Flemish knight watched. His men are of no concern to me, as long as they stay beyond the castle walls. I don't, however, trust their captain." He read another letter and threw it on the floor in disgust . The usual flurry of activity returned to the great hall, as the servants prepared the tables for supper.

"Alain of Mons?" Walter asked. "Because he was once a knight?"

The sheriff held out his goblet, as Alice poured wine from a flask. "Men who value money above all else can be easily manipulated," the sheriff stated. "But this Alain still values his service to Flanders. A man of honour, absurd as it might seem. Such men are either incredibly naïve … or dangerous."

Walter bowed and departed. "I shall have him watched, milord."

Alice placed a bowl of mouldy bread on the sheriff's table. "If I may ask, milord, do you think Sir Guy has arrived in Normandy by now?"

The sheriff rolled his eyes at the Saxon girl's lack of common sense. "Yes, Alice," he replied sarcastically. "I'm sure Sir Guy is dining with King Philip this very night to arrange a treaty." In a mock toast, he raised his goblet to her. "We shall be victorious."

"Very good, milord!" Alice beamed. "Normandy will be ours, I'm sure of it." The sheriff began to eat his supper, then paused. He doubted that the English army had sailed for Normandy yet. Despite de Giscard's declarations, he knew that King John lacked the Lionheart's stomach for a long campaign.

As he studied the letters on his table, he also realized that it would be much harder to replace Guy of Gisburne than he was prepared to admit.


	10. CH 10

Sir Guy of Gisburne wanted glory in France. He wanted to test his abilities against proper French knights on a proper French battlefield. He fought in tournaments against knights, but there was no risk in that. King John needed to reclaim those fiefs in France that Philip had usurped from him – and Gisburne was only too happy to cast his lot with the other English nobles. There would be plenty of pillaging, treasure (and women) to be claimed as spoils of war. He thought of the Saxon barmaid he had bedded a few nights before and grinned.

On a godforsaken, chilly beach in southern England, he found no glory. When Gisburne arrived weeks before, he had assumed that he would be part of the mounted knights: the vanguard that would smash through the French lines and create an opening for the English men-at-arms to exploit. Instead, he was assigned one hundred of the smelliest, half-witted and poorly trained bunch of peasants he had ever seen. His job was "to make them into soldiers", de Giscard had written in his letters. The herald was still scouring the country for money, men and supplies for the invasion. Some of England's most powerful nobles – from Chester, Lincoln and Leicester among them – had assembled their own men on these shores. Gisburne had never seen so many galley ships in one place in his life. Horses would be corralled into the holds of great galley vessels, while smaller vessels waited in the dock to be boarded. There had to be a thousand – no, two thousand – men on these shores. Other ports were surely bristling with soldiers, adventurers and mercenaries intent on glory, plunder or royal favour.

"Shoulder-to-shoulder, you imbeciles!" Gisburne barked at his party of men. Over the past few weeks he had turned this motley band of peasants and old fools into a somewhat competent cohort of pikemen. His men hurriedly stepped into line, but one boy – no older than fourteen – straggled behind them.

"You idiot!" Gisburne yelled. "Stay in line! If Philip of France's knights were charging, you would have given him a perfect opening. All of you would be minced by French lances, swords and axes!" The boy began to tremble and cry. Gisburne had no patience for weeping men and raised his gloved hand to strike the lad, but a horseman seized his wrist.

"We're fighting the French, remember? Not each other." the mounted soldier remarked. Gisburne muttered a curse under his breath – then gasped. It was no soldier, but one of the earls: the Earl of Huntingdon. He was draped in a fur-lined cloak over a simple, muddy surcoat bearing the green coat of arms of Huntingdon.

"We'll be counting on your pikemen to hold the line," the earl said. "No horse would dare breach a solid line of pikemen – if they stand firm against the charge."

"They'll do a better job then your son ever could," Gisburne replied sourly. He feared most nobles, but since it was revealed that Robert of Huntingdon was the Hooded Man, he couldn't help but insult the earl.

The earl said nothing. "In the king's eyes, I no longer have a son," he said, pausing awkwardly. "But I still have my honour. Make no mistake about it Sir Guy, I am loyal to His Majesty and the English cause in France. Philip has stolen what is ours and, by God, we shall take it back." Gisburne scoffed at the claim under his breath, not daring to challenge the earl's loyalty to the king. The Earl of Huntingdon may have been embarrassed by the recent news, but he had contributed money to the English war chest and raised over 200 men-at-arms for the invasion. The earl was still a man of power, one who had influence at court.

"Let's test your men then," the earl stated. It was an order, but Gisburne was slow to grasp it.

"I've been drilling them for the past few weeks," Gisburne bleated weakly. He was tired, hungry and the wind was bitter. He wanted to send the men away and find a meal in one of the port's taverns.

"Against horses?" the earl inquired. The earl trotted his horse several yards away on the beach, and soon half a dozen horsemen from his household joined him. Their swords were still in their scabbards, but they all had wooden tournament staves.

"Prepare your men, Sir Guy," the earl commanded. Before, the earl seemed harmless with his greying hair and muddy surcoat. Now, he menaced beneath his battered helmet, with eyes hidden behind the cross slits of his visor. The earl meant to charge them and Gisburne hastily ordered his pitiful band into a line formation.

"St. George!" the earl growled, and his men joined in the war cry as they galloped towards the pikemen. Half a dozen English chargers tore up the sandy beach with their hooves, intent on breaking through Gisburne's line of pikemen. They would not be dishonoured against a band of peasant soldiers.

"Form ranks!" Gisburne shouted, mounted atop his black steed. His men put on a brave show as they stood shoulder-to-shoulder, pikes aimed at the horses' chests and legs. The horses neighed, their warm breath steaming into the air. They seemed like the horsemen of the Apocalypse and the pikemen were terrified. One of younger men threw down his pike and ran away from the charging horsemen. Some of the older soldiers in the cohort stood their ground, but the peasants only saw horses and knights intent on slaughter and broke their formation. The pikemen scattered in fear as the earl's knights galloped through the openings in the line, pretending to corral and stab at the scattered men.

The earl lifted his visor, disgusted at their poor discipline and cowardice. "Your men aren't fit to guard a stable, let alone defend the king against Philip's chargers!"

"They've never faced live horses before," Gisburne said, as if that explanation would placate the earl.

"Then you'd better start training them against horses," the earl instructed. As the earl trotted away, Gisburne angrily tossed his helmet at his disorganized men and sat on a piece of driftwood in despair. The earl was prepared to leave it at that, but he took pity on this wretched steward of Nottingham. Sir Guy no longer had the sheriff's robes to hide behind, and it had been years since the Norman knight had faced opponents who weren't cutthroats or outlaws. In France, they would all be bound by oath to defend each other to the death.

"We'll train again at sun up," the earl said. "And we'll train until your men stand their ground. You'll make them proper English pikemen yet, Sir Guy. If they fail, it won't matter how many men-at-arms we have: Philip will have hundreds more knights and they will shred us into pieces. They must stand with courage." Gisburne said nothing as the earl and his horsemen trotted back to the main camp atop the escarpment.

One of the older pikemen, a veteran of Lionheart's campaigns, approached Gisburne. "The men will do better, milord," the sergeant assured his master. "They need more practice."

Gisburne drained the last drops from his skin of mead and wiped his mouth. "You heard the earl," he said. "We practice again in the morning." Gisburne mounted his charger and rode off, cursing himself for his arrogance. His men were not ready for war, a lesson the Earl of Huntingdon quickly taught him. He felt ashamed that he could not prepare his men adequately; it didn't help that he had no idea how long the English army was to linger here. Weeks? Months? At least in Nottingham, he knew the tasks he had to perform and he had outlaws to hunt.

As he approached the English encampment, another man-at-arms sprinted towards him. His surcoat was miraculously bright and clean, with no sign of grime, cuts or other marks of battle. One of de Giscard's runners, Gisburne thought.

"Sir Guy," the herald's steward announced. "I bring news from my lord, Hubert de Giscard, by the grace of God, herald to John of England …"

"I know who de Giscard is, you dolt!" Gisburne snarled. "What news do you bring?"

"It's the fleet," the steward said, visibly offended by Gisburne's lack of courtly manners. "His Majesty's vessel has already sailed for Normandy, and the main fleet is to follow. The Earl of Chester will have orders. You are to sail in one week's time." The steward spotted one of the Earl of Huntingdon's captains and, ignoring Gisburne, left to pursue him.

Gisburne turned behind him and watched the war galleys bob and heave in the tide. It seemed too peaceful. In a week's time, England would sail to Normandy and to battle. "Christ, I'm famished," Gisburne said. The port's squalid taverns and wenches awaited – that was one mission he intended to fulfil tonight.

* * *

Alain of Mons, mercenary and former knight of Flanders, took one of his trusted Flemish men into the woodlands surrounding Nottingham. He picked up a piece of dung on a beaten track near the edge of the forest and sniffed it. 

"It's deer. They poach the king's deer," Alain said. "No doubt, they stay well hidden to avoid the sheriff's men and the foresters by day."

"What a miserable country," his companion uttered. "But, think of it Alain … a chest full of gold!"

Alain grabbed the man by his surcoat. "This Robin of the Hood is no mere peasant with a slingshot, Jacques," he said. "He's the disowned son of the Earl of Huntingdon! The whelp would have been taught how to use a sword." He spat on the ground, wary of every sound in the woods. "His men use longbows. Even the girl who fights with them can shoot an arrow."

The undergrowth became so thick that Jacques almost stumbled over his sword's scabbard. The tavern keeper told stories about Sherwood Forest last night. The outlaws were spirits, he told him over a mug of ale. Men entered Sherwood and heard voices, the voices of the damned. The Hooded Man was a demon, it was claimed, one of Lucifer's fallen angels. Some said he was a goblin that played tricks on travellers. People entered the dark forest and never returned.

Jacques saw the darkening woods ahead of him. It was mid-afternoon, but the branches and leaves in the canopy above blotted out the sun. Alain was now several paces ahead of him when a crow cawed malevolently. "The forest is full of devils!" Jacques blubbered. He took one step back when a squirrel scampered in front of him. Jacques, who had fought French soldiers in siege after harrowing siege in Flanders, became convinced that this forest was possessed and began to run away in panic.

Alain seized his arm. "You would flee from crows and squirrels?" he scoffed. "It's a forest, you fool, nothing more." Jacques struggled to break free. "But the tavern keeper said they were spirits," he muttered helplessly. Alain pulled his sword slightly out of its scabbard. "I'll make you into a spirit if you don't get some sense into you!" One bird cooed while another sang out in reply in the distance, but this time Alain dragged his companion to the ground and ordered him to stay quiet. They lay flat on their stomachs, enveloped by the thick undergrowth. Jacques was about to speak, but Alain thumped him on the shoulder to keep him silent.

"Those weren't birds," Alain said. Minutes passed, and then the lonely track rustled with footsteps. A Saracen with two swords and a bandolier of throwing knives approached the deer tracks cautiously. Alain prayed that the ground was not wet and that footprints would betray them. He thought of slitting the lone infidel's throat when a bearded giant followed. The man was armed with a quarterstaff and looked like he could easily fight a dozen men.

"We lost it, Nasir," Little John said. Nasir had already fitted his bow with an arrow and remained suspicious of every sound.

"The crow scared it off," Nasir said. "You dine on rabbits – again – tonight." He offered him a handful of walnuts.

"I need meat, my friend," Little John said. "It's the king's deer that we want, isn't that right Marion?"

Through the undergrowth, Alain saw a fair-skinned young woman climb over a log. She had the longest red hair he had ever seen and she was armed with a longbow and a dagger. Her clothes were ragged and the hem of her dress was entangled with leaves, but she carried herself like a noblewoman. This was her forest and she was the Lady of Sherwood, as the troubadours called her in their songs. The Flemish knight had heard the tales in taverns and villages throughout Normandy, Brittany and the French territories.

"You could have been quieter, Little John," Marion said. "And I could hear Nasir's footsteps a mile away!" Nasir and Little John laughed at her taunts as they abandoned their deer hunt. Tuck's stew was waiting and they were hungry.

"The crusader's daughter," Alain smiled. He had found the Lady of Sherwood. Robin Hood's secret camp was somewhere in this forest of the damned.


	11. CH 11

Will Scarlet stepped cautiously away from the shade of Sherwood's trees, signalling the others to halt.

"Something ain't right," Will muttered. "I can smell it!"

Yesterday was an uneventful evening. Tuck prepared his stew, while Much played his flute to pass the time. Robin clumsily tried to engage Marion in conversation, but she still seemed distant – Loxley was still not far from her mind. Will still had doubts if this earl's son from Huntingdon could take up the responsibilities of the Hooded Man. Herne the Hunter had chosen him, and that was enough for Marion and the others. Will wanted to believe that was good enough for him, and Robin had given up an earldom for their cause. This new Robin was not like the people they helped: he was never poor, never hungry and never without need or want. What more could the man do to earn their respect? Will tried to bury his doubts but it still lingered. This Robin was of noble birth, like the king's herald, the sheriff and the despicable Guy of Gisburne: he was one of _them_.

After years of living as outlaws, the band also sensed that there was something amiss in the forest. Without a word, Nasir advanced silently up the path.

"No footprints, no hooves," Nasir said. "The path has not been disturbed." He carefully withdrew a throwing knife when he heard scratching sounds, but the alarm was nothing more than a squirrel on a tree trunk.

They had left their hidden camp at dawn and had ventured towards the outer edges of the forest. Today, they intended to visit Wickham to meet with Edward and the village elders. Rumours of yet another special levy for the Norman campaigns had worried the people of the shire and they needed to prepare for the worst.

"What can they do, Robin?" Marion asked. "The people can't afford another tax – but if they openly defy the king's wishes, it will give the sheriff a motive to further harass the villages. Lord knows they've suffered enough."

"They shouldn't pay one penny to the king!" Little John blurted. "Why should they give King John any more blood money to fight his foreign wars? The nobles and their knights can rot in France for all I care."

Robin turned towards the band. "It's not that simple, Little John. Marion is right. If the peasants openly resist, the sheriff will claim that it's a rebellion and burn every village that dares to defy him. The poor will blame us for provoking the sheriff's revenge and no one will trust us then."

Tuck gasped as he caught up with his swifter friends. "When Our Lord said that the meek shall inherit the earth, I don't think He was talking about Normandy."

Much, who had straggled behind, didn't pay any attention to Will's caution and called out to Robin. "So what do we do, Robin? If the villagers can't pay the tax, the sheriff will get mad and punish them."

"Quiet!" Will snarled in a low voice, gesturing at Much to be silent. "I don't like it." He drew his sword. "Listen!"

"I don't hear anything, Scarlet," Little John said.

Will rolled his eyes. "Well, that's the point, ain't it? It's too damn quiet. I don't hear nothing – not even a bird."

"Robin, be ready," Marion said. Robin took her advice and slowly notched an arrow into his bow.

They were approaching a clearing in the woods. Nothing seemed unusual, but Will's paranoia and Nasir's tense demeanour were unnerving. Robin concluded that Will Scarlet must have fought with the English armies in France, while Nasir's formidable skills as a warrior suggested that he likely served the great infidel sultans of the East, perhaps even under Saladin himself. He had no reason to doubt their instincts now. They were in the clearing, the trees of Sherwood behind them. They would arrive in Wickham by noon.

Nasir spun around to face Robin and the others, brandishing a throwing knife in hand. "Down!" he said, and flung the blade into the chest of large, heavy-set man with golden hair and a horned helmet. The Dane coughed and slumped onto the grass. In moments, more than a dozen men-at-arms emerged around them.

"Robert, former heir to Huntingdon – the one they call Robin Hood," a loud voice boomed from behind them. "Where is he?"

"An ambush!" Will exclaimed, as he drew out a dagger with his left hand. The others quickly drew their bows, encircling Robin and Marion.

"You've been following us for several minutes," Robin declared confidently. It was only a guess, but he sensed that these men must have trailed them somewhere in the forest this morning.

"I dare not challenge you in the forest, for that is your realm," the voice said. "An open field is my arena. A soldier's arena – no trees to hide behind!" An imposing figure emerged from a nearby hill, silhouetted by the morning sun in the east. He was dressed in battered, studded leather armour and bore a simple helmet with a nose guard. On his right gauntlet was an embroidered black-and-yellow rampant lion, the coat of arms of his former liege the Count of Flanders.

"Who are you?" Robin demanded, shielded behind the drawn arrows of his band. There were a dozen men he could see, but there could be more amongst the trees. It was a motley crew before them: blue-painted screaming Celts, Danish warriors with axes and spears, a few sturdy men-at-arms with swords, and God alone knew who else lay in the woods.

"I am Alain of Mons," the mercenary captain replied. "You see, Huntingdon, I am no peasant rabble-rouser. I am a soldier, bred to fight. I have fought princes and dukes for glory and honour. The price on your head is mine to claim. Your friends may yet live if you lay down your sword – now. Because of your noble blood, this is the only courtesy I will concede today. I accept your surrender."

"I never offered it," Robin countered. "But I thank you for the courtesy nonetheless."

"I hoped you would say that," Alain said. He pointed at the Celts, who advanced with two large wooden shields, concealing a pair of Flemish crossbowmen. A bolt narrowly missed Nasir's feet.

"Idiots," Will said. The band set loose a volley of arrows, which pierced the shields several times and splintered the wood. One arrow impaled a Celt in the neck, while another struck one of the Flemish men-at-arms in the thigh. The ferocity of the outlaws' attack momentarily drove back the advance of Alain's soldiers, who took shelter along the forest edge.

Two thuds landed behind Robin and Much, who were the farthest back. The range was too far for standard crossbows. Much scampered towards the sound, and found two long, feathered arrows. "Those look like our arrows, Robin," he said.

"My God, they have longbows," Robin said. "Welshmen – paid to fight for King John?" Will swore under his breath. "Bloody hell," he added. "They're fightin' for this fellow now! We've got problems." The archers could be hidden anywhere in the trees.

Robin and his band had quivers full of arrows – but this Alain of Mons also had experienced archers. The two arrows had missed; their archers would not miss again. The outlaws were exposed. If they fled south, the open meadows offered no shelter. To retreat there would be foolhardy. Alain's men blocked the route east towards Wickham. Alain's men slowly stalked the band, knowing that the stream to the west would block their only escape.

"Robin, run!" Marion bellowed, as another arrow thudded within inches of Robin's feet. She reached for his hand and dragged him behind the safety of Little John and the others.

They had to flee back to Sherwood, or they would all surely die under a hail of arrows.

* * *

The sheriff angrily flung a half-eaten apple core at the young squire, who had grown his sandy blond hair long to conceal his age. 

"But I can fight!" the young man declared, though he was barely a man. He had turned fifteen last week and served as a squire to one of the Earl of Leicester's knights. The boy thought his status would suffice when he offered his services to the Sheriff of Nottingham.

"Have you ever fought before?" the sheriff inquired.

"I – I fought in a tournament near London, not six months ago," the boy stuttered. The sheriff was prepared to dismiss the upstart, one of dozens he had cast aside this morning. None were suitable replacements for Gisburne. Some were too old, others too young, while others were too ambitious or too stupid. Gisburne was stupid, the sheriff thought, but at least he rarely questioned orders. He wanted an obedient dog to do his bidding – not old men who were not long for this life or children who had barely left their wet nurses.

"Walter, come here," the sheriff said. The sheriff's household captain nodded respectfully and approached his table. The sheriff then nodded to the young squire. "Walter is an experienced soldier. Defeat my man in combat, and the job of steward is yours."

The squire hesitantly drew his sword, grasping the hilt with both hands. Without hesitation, Walter swung his sword towards the boy's right shoulder. The squire parried the blow, but he didn't expect his opponent to batter his own hilt into his nose. The boy sprawled on the stone floor, horrified at his bloodied nose.

"Now get out of my castle before I have you flogged for wasting my time!" the sheriff exclaimed. The squire hastily gathered his sword – and his lingering pride – from the floor and dashed out of the great hall.

"Send the rest of the applicants away for the day," the sheriff said as he returned to the dreary paperwork of running a king's shire. "I've had enough of prancing, titled imbeciles who compare tournament games to fighting in the Crusades."

Alice the chamber maid took a quick glance at the bloodied squire who had fled the great hall and arrived with a flask of wine and a half-loaf of day-old bread. "It's the last of the bread, milord. And we have no cheese left."

The sheriff immediately seized the flask of wine, and as an afterthought, motioned to Walter to fill his own goblet with wine. Walter had competently fulfilled many of Gisburne's duties, and the sheriff felt obliged to grant him a few privileges. Sharing wine with his lord was one of them. "We have no bread because we've given most of the grain to His Majesty's armies in the south. We have no cheese because of that very reason. Ah well, I'm sure the people of this shire have bread and cheese in their pantries. We shall have to ferret them out, won't we, Walter?"

"Yes, milord," Walter replied, though he knew that many people had already given what they had.

"Tell me, Alice," the sheriff said as he belched. "Are the people prepared to sacrifice more to feed His Majesty's armies?"

"The people are loyal to the king," Alice replied meekly, wary of offending her master. She was a Saxon peasant, whose opinion had no value among the ruling Normans. She nervously twirled a strand of her brown hair in her fingers.

"Come, that's not an answer," the sheriff said. He knew that he would learn more truth from this servant than he would from any courtier. "Speak your mind, girl."

Alice took a deep breath to consider what she would say. "It's just that – well – beggin' your pardon, milord, but they've given all they have … and more. To ask them to give what they don't have … well …" She stopped abruptly. "Forgive me, milord, I spoke in haste."

"Go on," the sheriff prodded. "I'm listening."

Alice took another breath, fearful that her next words may cost her a tongue. "Another levy … is a burden they can no longer bear." She trembled and bowed her head, not daring to raise her eyes.

"Interesting," the sheriff said. "You may go." Alice bowed and scurried out of the hall. The sheriff summoned Walter to his chair.

"Your orders, milord?" Walter inquired.

"I want more guards posted on the walls and a man in the watchtower, day and night," the sheriff said without looking up from his paperwork. He placed his signet ring into the wax and sealed an envelope. "This shire is on the verge of rebellion. I can sense it. You heard the girl: they can't bear the king's levies any longer! His Majesty's ambitions in France have pushed this pitiful country towards chaos. He is mad with power. No doubt, he's considering to raise the scutage – then it will be the barons who will revolt!"

"And the supplies for the king?" Walter asked, uncertain if the sheriff still intended to reap whatever foodstuffs he could from the shire.

"By God's grace," the sheriff announced with a flourish, "King John can make do with what we have already given his army. He can wait until the Second Coming of Our Lord for all I care if he wants more from Nottingham. His Majesty possesses quite the talent in provoking the anger of the poor and wealthy all at once! These peasants, their crops, their cattle and their lands are mine to do with as I see fit. If there is a rebellion, we must be prepared. Nottingham's storehouses will be filled at all costs, do you understand?"

"Yes, milord, I do," Walter replied, "but if the people object ..."

"Object?" the sheriff growled. "It is not their place to object, but to serve and to obey. Never forget that. And Walter? Find out what your man has learned about this Flemish knight who claims to serve money but bears the crest of Baldwin of Flanders." He gave Walter the sealed letter addressed to his brother, Abbot Hugo, and dismissed him with his hand.

The sheriff returned to his paperwork of fines, receipts and work orders. He dreaded the thought of peasants or barons turning his shire into a battlefield. He tore into a piece of bread and wondered if the castle could endure a prolonged siege.

_The king's army may starve in Normandy_, he thought, _but I won't starve in this bloody castle_.


	12. CH 12

Gisburne, mounted atop his black destrier, wiped the grime and soot from his face. The siege of the French-garrisoned town of St.-Luc-sur-Mer lasted all of two days. He thought the town had a stupid name: it wasn't even on the sea, but more than a day's march from it.

Philip of France had sent parties of raiders to harass the English army, but they did not remain to fight a pitched battle. King John had arrived in Normandy weeks earlier, with all the great siege engines he needed to batter any stronghold into submission. The French garrison must have numbered at least a hundred men-at-arms and militia, Gisburne thought, but they were powerless against the longbows, catapults and giant crossbows of the English.

A woman screamed as she knelt before her 10-year-old son, whose throat an English foot soldier had just cut. Two more soldiers unceremoniously yanked the woman up by her flaxen hair and dragged her back into her half-burnt house. They slammed the door behind them. Gisburne had relished the idea of pillaging some rich Norman town flush with rubies, golden chalices and silver goblets. He spat on the ground, as he observed the sparse lodgings in the surrounding area. This town offered few riches, and his opportunity to take what little it had was now lost.

Gisburne, captain of a troop of recently-trained pikemen, was assigned to the Earl of Huntingdon's company of chargers. Gisburne's men provided a defensive screen for the mounted knights, who would gallop out into the countryside to chase away any remaining French raiders. The earl demanded strict discipline from his troops and frowned on the looting excesses that some of the other nobles permitted. Even now, many lords of the realm were directing their own soldiers to seek out any plunder that the pitiful town may yet yield.

"No pillaging?" one of Gisburne's men groaned. "That's bloody stupid! It's a right of war. The Earl of Leicester lets his men do what they will in a captured town – why not us?"

Gisburne agreed with him, but he would not allow common men to speak about a lord of the English army with such disrespect. "The town is ours," Gisburne said, "and if my lord of Huntingdon wishes that we are to maintain order here for the fortnight, then you will do your duty – or you will see the back of my hand, or worse!" The soldier offered a weak 'a_ye, my lord_', grumbled under his breath and returned to his station beside one of the town's wells.

A commotion outside the church of St.-Luc-sur-Mer caught Gisburne's attention. One of the mercenaries scrambled down the church steps with an armful of shiny bowls and goblets.

"Seize him!" one of the nobles ordered gruffly. Gisburne recognized the voice as that of the Earl of Huntingdon. Two of the earl's household guards wrestled the man to the ground and pulled him towards their lord. Huntingdon inspected one of the goblets and found a few wafers still in it.

"You would desecrate the bread of life … to satisfy your own greed!" he exclaimed. "Gisburne! Have this man hanged in the town square at once! Let him be an example to others that we will not tolerate such barbarism against the Holy Church in the king's name!"

"Do it now, sergeant," Gisburne instructed his company's second-in-command. He had learned to trust the middle-aged soldier, whom the other men called Wolfric the Smith. He was a wise man who had fought with the Lionheart in Anjou and managed to gain the respect of most of the pikemen. A scar above his left eyebrow was proof of his experience. There were malcontents in the cohort, but Gisburne presumed that all armies had them. Wolfric nodded grimly and accompanied Huntingdon's soldiers to the square, with their prisoner wailing to the heavens.

Gisburne gave the condemned man no further thought, and turned toward the earl. "I'm told the king is moving south, in force." At the end of the siege, he noticed the departure of the great baggage train of the English court: scores of mounted soldiers and knights, the courtiers, siege machines … and the king's carriage of favourite laundresses. The town would yield two more maidens to service the King.

Huntingdon nodded. "Eleanor of Aquitaine's castle is under siege by Arthur the Pretender's compatriots deep to the south, in Poitou. King John intends to raise the siege of Mirebeau at any cost."

"And where does that leave us, my lord?" Gisburne asked, still peering at the gaping hole in the town's western walls. The English armies in Normandy amounted to just over three thousand men. By dawn, there could be even fewer with the departure of the king's forces.

"We are to rebuild what we can of the town walls and leave a token garrison to guard our beachhead," Huntingdon said, without much enthusiasm. The blue pennant of France atop the watchtower had already been replaced with the red-and-rampant-lion of England. "The people of Normandy must be made to know who their rightful masters are, and we must secure the main road to Paris – at least until King John returns. God alone knows when that will be."

Gisburne eyed the town's lone tavern, which had miraculously escaped any damage. The ribald songs of the conquerors and their women already echoed from the alehouse.

"Your men are to remain sober to guard the town this fortnight," Huntingdon said, emphasizing his orders by pointing at the knight's face. "You may have your leave when that is done." Dusk was approaching and the earl was considering a paltry meal of roasted fowl and bread in his tent. He was tempted to share a supper with this knight of Nottingham, but he hesitated. "Where shall you dine, Sir Guy?" he inquired tactfully. "You've not eaten since breakfast."

Gisburne thought of his own men, who would have to scrounge for any roaming livestock or any pantries that had escaped looting. He had already declined a banquet with the Earl of Lincoln's knights, who had been responsible for the worst of today's pillaging excesses. Having just executed a man for looting a church, he believed that he would be an outsider among them. "I will see that my men are fed for tomorrow's march."

Huntingdon took of his helmet and wiped his brow with his gauntlet. "Ah yes – tomorrow. When we'll take the Paris road, and capture Philip's throne by Sunday Mass."

Gisburne laughed at the preposterous idea, and the earl joined in with a boisterous chuckle. Perhaps the earl was not as foolish as some of the other Norman commanders, Gisburne thought. The other lords thought little of Philip's military abilities, yet the French king had nearly recaptured all of the lands the Plantagenets had once claimed as theirs.

"Eat heartily and rest well, Sir Guy," Huntingdon said. "Your men did well today." He departed for his billet in town with a half-dozen of his household guard.

Gisburne saw the banner of England flutter in the twilight atop St.-Luc-sur-Mer's battlements, and his heart swelled with pride. He had helped to capture a town within sight of King John himself! He dared to imagine what future honours may await him on this campaign. It was not the glorious battle that he had imagined, but it was one victory.

_An English victory._

"Thank you, my lord," Gisburne replied, the earl barely within earshot. "I shall sleep well … the town is ours." The night was young, his orders were few, and the tavern's pleasures would await his return.

* * *

Nasir wrestled Will to the ground, as an arrow thudded in the ground nearby. 

"Cowards!" Will yelled as he scrambled up to his feet. "Mercenary scum! I'll take them on now!"

"No, Will!" Robin protested. "They'll cut us down where we stand! Those are Welsh archers – we must get out of open ground." Robin and Marion loosed two more arrows upon their pursuers, who quickly jumped out of range. They were vulnerable on the meadow, but so were Alain's men.

Will thought of arguing with Robin, but he saw two of Alain's men charging towards them on their mounts and he wisely joined the others as they fled to the west.

"Robin of the Hood," Alain bellowed loudly, in safety behind his archers. "You are trapped. Yield to me, and your men may live. Dare to resist, and your blood will baptize these meadows today." He ducked as a volley from the outlaws thudded just behind him.

"Brave words, sir knight," Robin jested. "Yet you attack us from afar with hired arrows from Wales. Is this the best that a Flemish land pirate can do?" Angered at the insult, Alain directed one of his horsemen to charge Robin and Marion. The man screamed something in the Celtic tongue and wildly thrust his rusted spear in the air. He yelped one last time as one of Nasir's throwing knives impaled his belly. The outlaws had no time to celebrate, due to another fierce volley from Alain's archers.

In moments, the stream was upon them. The current was fast; it had been raining for days and the water level had risen. The outlaws scrabbled down the embankment and set off a blind volley of arrows. One of Alain's men grunted in pain, as one of the wild arrows nicked him in the arm.

"Where can we ford the stream?" Robin asked. The stream had become deeper than usual, and he wasn't sure if they could cross it. Alain the mercenary had them trapped against the stream, and they were running out of arrows.

Much raced along the bank, turning north. "There, Robin! The current's not so fast up there! We can cross over the stones."

Nasir notched his bow and set loose one of his arrows. "We must cross the stream now," Nasir said. "The mercenary's cohort will be upon us soon." The mercenaries began to hurry their pace, sensing that their trap had succeeded in snaring their quarry.

"I have an idea," Robin said. Soon, Robin, Marion and Tuck crossed the stream onto the other bank and made their way north to the forest edge. Nasir waited on the other side, supplied with the outlaws' spare quivers. A Flemish raider crouched to peer over the bank, only to receive one of Nasir's arrows in his throat. Alain's archers, protected by the broad shields of the remaining cohort, fired a volley that landed mere inches from Nasir's feet. The Saracen grinned and hurried off to join Robin.

"They're doubling back!" said Jacques, Alain's lieutenant. "Cross the stream!" One of the Danes – an ugly and clumsy brute with matted blond hair – carefully edged his way down the bank and into the stream. Suddenly, Much appeared above the crest of the bank and swirled his slingshot at him. The Dane growled as one of the rocks pelted the side of his face, but before he could climb the bank, Little John emerged from the stream and tripped him with his quarterstaff. A forceful jab with the butt of his staff soon silenced the Norseman. A Celt wailed his ancient war cry and splashed into the stream, only to be surprised from behind by a submerged Will Scarlet. Will sliced his dagger viciously across the warrior's throat and left him gurgling face down in the stream. Alain and his party of archers appeared atop the bank, which meant that it was time for the remaining outlaws to cross the stream.

"Back to the forest, you dolts!" Alain barked at his men. "Don't let them get away!" The outlaws had crossed the other side and would soon be underneath the protective canopy of Sherwood Forest.

Alain raised a spear with a red cloth in the air. The shielded archers continued to fire volleys across the stream, but the outlaws were running farther away.

Robin, Marion and Tuck paused just outside the edge of the forest. Will, Little John and the others sprinted towards them. Alain's men were nowhere in sight.

"I rather liked that idea you had, Robin," Little John said. "That Flemish pirate's got fewer men to feed tonight."

"He's too far behind us," Will said. "We'd better get back to Sherwood." The neighing of a horse froze them in place. Two mounted horsemen – one a Dane with a horned helmet, the other a Scot with a trimmed beard – trotted out of a wooded knoll with shields and spears. The outlaws fired one last volley, which thudded harmlessly into one of the horsemen's stout shields.

"Whatever happens," Robin said, "get back into the forest. We'll follow." The few trees along the forest edge offered sparse cover; they would be carved piecemeal if they remained in the open too long. Will and Much were first into the forest, while Nasir and Tuck covered their retreat with their longbows. Little John brandished his quarterstaff and roared defiantly at the approaching horsemen. They steered clear of the giant: to do otherwise would lead to certain death for them.

"Little John!" Marion exclaimed. Alain's archers appeared on the ridge. Most of their arrows thudded into the surrounding trees, but one arrow tore into Little John's right thigh. He limped as quickly as he could into the forest overgrowth. One of the horsemen reared his horse and charged towards Marion.

Robin moved towards her when another volley of arrows thudded between them. Alain set loose his men, who frantically raced towards Robin. Robin parried one spear thrust and kicked the Danish attacker in the stomach. He hammered Albion's hilt into the man's back. A sword slashed at Robin's arm. He felt that it had drawn blood, but he was consumed in the moment of battle. Alain's men had skill with a blade, but Robin was an earl's son: his father had trained him in swordplay since he was a boy. Albion had become a part of him and Robin's confidence grew with each parry, blow and slice. The clash of steel was invigorating; bloodlust overwhelmed him. Again and again, he parried every blow. No one could best him, for he was Herne's Son, the King of Sherwood. A Celt wailed as Albion cut into his left leg. Another man – a scowling Scot – lay dying at his feet. The surviving attackers broke off their assault and fell back.

"Marion?" Robin gasped. He couldn't find her at first, but his heart sank when he saw the ridge across the meadow. "Robin!" Marion called out, astride the Scotsman's horse. Robin ran out, but Alain's archers were advancing methodically behind the Celts and their shields. The Flemish mercenary could afford to wait, while Robin had run out of time.

With arrows zinging behind him, Robin dashed into the woods in despair. The day had become a failure. Their escape across the stream, his well-laid trap along the embankment and the many dead and wounded they had left on the meadow and the stream … all of it meant nothing to him now.

Marion was a prisoner.

"I have the Maid of Sherwood, the one called Marion of Leaford," Alain said. Marion struggled to free herself from the horseman's grip, to no avail.

Robin moved towards the forest edge again, but Little John held him back.

"Your leg," Robin said, as an afterthought. The arrowhead had dug deep into Little John's leg.

"We must cut it out, or the wound will fester," Nasir said calmly. He glanced at the left sleeve of Robin's tunic, which was also bloodied. "A flesh wound, nothing more," Robin stated.

"Oh, this is bloody swell!" Scarlet steamed. "The Flemish pirate's got Marion, John's wounded and they know how to find us in the forest!"

"Robin Hood will surrender," Alain said. "One day from now, at the_ Five Sisters_." _The Wheel of Five Sisters_ was a circle of five large stones, a local pagan landmark once used for Druid rituals during the Roman times. "On my honour, my lady of Leaford will come to no harm until then. Come alone and unarmed. You and your band have cost me many men this day, Hooded Man. Come tomorrow, alone. No tricks, or by God, you shall find your woman dead at the _Sisters_ in a fortnight." Alain's cohort took their wounded towards one of the village paths.

Robin ignored Will's sour glances for now. "Someone needs to follow them." Nasir was about to volunteer when Much stood up.

"I'll follow them," Much said solemnly, as he buckled one of the dead raider's swords around his waist. "Looks like they're goin' to Wickham."

"You're gonna let the halfwit track them?" Will challenged. "As if this day ain't already a sorry disaster!" Much grabbed Will by his collar. "Marion … she's braver than all of us," Much said. "Than all of us, Will! She and I were there when Robin – my brother – gave his life. Do you remember that? I won't lose them. I'll track them sure enough, I swear."

"Much is equal to any of us, Scarlet," Tuck chimed in. "He can blend into any crowd. They won't even know how close he can get. His word's as good as gold, I dare say." Little John slapped Much on the back to confirm his own support, wincing as Nasir bound his leg in strips of cloth. Much pulled his hood over his face and quickly faded into the woods, disappearing into the greenery.

"I can't believe that you … let them … take her," Will said, as he glared at Robin. Before he could utter another word, Nasir scowled at him.

"We must help him now," the Saracen said, nodding to Little John. "Or we will soon be unable to." The giant groaned in agony as Nasir steadied the leg in its makeshift tourniquet. The bleeding had slowed, for now.

"We abandon the old camp," Robin said, avoiding Will's stare. "We avoid the deer trails and go deep into Sherwood, where they say only the spirits dwell. They won't dare go that far into the forest. We'll come up with something once we're safe." He thought he heard Will mumble, _yes, my lord,_ bitterly under his breath.

"What did you say, Will?" Robin said. "It's nothing," Will replied. He and Nasir shouldered Little John's arms to support him and helped him to stumble into the forest. Robin knew that he would have words with Scarlet – and it would be sooner rather than later.

Tuck looked back at the ridge and the meadow. Marion was captured and, despite his faith, he feared for her safety. These were mercenaries and raiders, bound by no oath, and her fate was in their hands tonight.

"May God save you, Little Flower," Tuck prayed.

Robin was the last to join them. No prayers could spare him of his guilt, and Will continued to point out his inadequacies in front of the others. Much and Tuck were intensely loyal to him and Little John seemed supportive, but he wasn't as sure about the others. Nasir was obedient, but in the way that a steward would yield to his sworn master. Robin's disputes with Will Scarlet had become more frequent; Scarlet still questioned his position in the band. This was more evident in Will's grating habit of deferring only to the judgments of Marion, who (not surprisingly) commanded their respect.

_She speaks, but it is Loxley's voice they still hear_, Robin thought.

Today's failure might convince them to reconsider their confidence in his role as Herne's Son. He began to believe that he let Alain take Marion. He allowed Alain's men to distract him, and the thrill of battle to consume him. He would replay those last moments of the battle in his mind later … like the woven tapestries in the halls of the great lords, which recounted old campaigns and triumphs.

But, unlike those tapestries, this day offered no victory to recall.

What had happened today could not be undone. He would surrender himself to Alain of Mons at the _Five Sisters_, or Marion would die.


	13. CH 13

Robin didn't anticipate that his confrontation with Scarlet would come so soon. The band had scurried through the forest – their forest – like squirrels on the run from some predator. The mercenary Alain of Mons had lost half a dozen men today, some killed and others wounded. Some would eventually die of their injuries. He wanted retribution and would have continued the hunt, except for the superstitions of his men. They had heard tales about Sherwood Forest: a place of magic, spirits and pagan secrets. Some claimed the trees themselves were possessed. Jacques crowed that they now had Robin Hood under heel because they had captured the "Lady of Sherwood", Marion of Leaford.

Marion's capture weighed heavily on the minds of the outlaws when they finally rested after dusk – deep within Sherwood, where not even the king's foresters dared to go. Sometimes, Robin believed the tavern tales: the forest was enchanted to him. His experiences with Herne the Hunter showed him that there was a world beyond the idle and indifferent life of a lord. There was the hardship: the daily labours of the commoners, the rapacious behaviour of their masters and the cruel indifference of bishops and barons. It would be too easy to dwell on the misery. _Do not let the suffering dissuade you_, Herne would say. _Any man can see suffering; it takes courage to do something about it_.

When Nasir cut out the arrowhead from Little John's leg, it took Tuck, Scarlet and Robin all their strength to hold the giant down. Little John bit firmly into a boiled leather strap and clenched his teeth, as Nasir retrieved the heated knife from the brazier and cut out the arrowhead. Tuck crossed himself when he sniffed the arrow and learned that it was not poisoned. When Little John finally fell asleep, Scarlet's attentions turned towards the afternoon's failures.

"How could you let them take her?" Scarlet exclaimed. He paced back and forth in front of the firepit. "We should have stood our ground – we could've taken them!"

"Alain of Mons is a soldier," Nasir said. "He knew how to defeat us, and that is on open ground with men-at-arms and his own archers." He placed a fur-lined cloak over Little John to keep him warm.

"He had longbows, Will," Robin added. "And horses. On open ground, we were outmatched."

"Outmatched?" Scarlet said. "The sheriff has crossbows and horses, too, and we know how to beat him. It don't matter if he fights us in the forest, on the road, in a meadow – we could take anything the Sheriff threw at us. And you … you let those land pirates beat us. Sherwood's ours! We could've drawn them into the woods and picked them off one by one."

"Scarlet, that's enough," Tuck said solemnly. He feared for Marion's safety, and the arguing was pointless to him.

"He has a point, Tuck," Robin admitted. "We allowed Alain to choose the battleground. We've seen how he fights. Next time, he won't be so fortunate."

"It's a little late for 'next time', don't ya think," Scarlet said. "This Alain fellow's got Marion. His men are filth who can't be trusted."

"Alain gave his word that Marion will come to no harm," Robin said, silently praying that the Flemish knight still placed value on honour. Scarlet scoffed at the remark and paced erratically again in front of the firepit. Little John let out a moan of pain and the men fell silent. Robin thought that was the last of it when Scarlet went off to the edge of camp. Nasir could hear Scarlet muttering something about the worth of a mercenary's word, but he let it pass.

Scarlet approached Robin an hour later. "So, that's it then. Alain gave his word – and you believe him?"

"You saw his gauntlet, Will," Robin replied. "It bears the crest of the House of Flanders. His men may be scoundrels, but it seems loyalty means something to him."

"I _knew_ it!" Scarlet exclaimed. "You would take his word on faith – because you're just … like … him." Nasir stood up tentatively, sensing that Scarlet's temper was up.

"I'm nothing like him," Robin said, and he sat up and crossed to the other side of the camp. Scarlet followed him.

"Aren't you?" Scarlet challenged. "You and Alain are creatures of the court: _yes, my lord, no my lord, would you like the serf's head on a plate, milord_? You've never starved, never suffered. You think a change of clothes and poaching deer makes you just like one of us? Not a chance."

"That's enough, Will!" Tuck ordered, but Scarlet wasn't listening.

"He's broken his vows, the Flemish pirate," Scarlet continued. "His word's worthless. At least he knows he's scum. You're just a nobleman wearing an outlaw's hood … _Robert_." He had intentionally referred to Robin by his lordly name, and the rebuke stung the Hooded Man.

"My name is _Robin_, Scarlet," Robin stated.

"You haven't earned the right to use his name, Herne's Son or not," Scarlet said. "If anything happens to Marion tonight, if they lay one hand on her …so help me, I'll – " Scarlet's provocations had finally hit their mark. Robin stood up angrily and instinctively placed his hand on Albion's hilt. Scarlet reached for his dagger, but Tuck firmly swatted it out of his hand with a quarterstaff. Scarlet clutched his bruised hand while Nasir pushed Robin away from him.

"You would have the mercenary keep his honour – while you stain yours?" Nasir said curtly. The Saracen's remark was a blow to him because the words rang true. The Hooded Man fought for the dispossessed, and that included people like Will Scarlet. He immediately felt ashamed that he had contemplated drawing Albion against one of his own men. It was the reaction of an earl's son – not of Herne's Son.

"Loxley would never have let them capture Marion," Scarlet muttered bitterly.

"Loxley is dead, Will," Tuck said. "So is Robert of Huntingdon. He is Herne's chosen son now – Robin, the Hooded Man. The people's champion. He has kept the faith, time and again. We must keep the faith if we are to save Marion. Fighting amongst ourselves only plays into Alain and the sheriff's hands. We've got to stay together." Tuck tried to help Scarlet off the ground, but he brushed off the friar's hand and stormed into the darkness of the woods.

"Will, I'm sorry –" Robin said, but Scarlet was already out of earshot.

Robin clapped Nasir on the shoulder. "Thank you, Nasir. _Salaam_. You were right."

"I know," Nasir grinned mischievously.

"Scarlet's frustrated, that's all," Tuck said. "You won't lose him, Robin." Robin nodded a quiet thanks to Tuck and stood alone, away from the dimming firepit. _I hope you're right, Tuck_, he thought. _We need Will Scarlet_. _To keep us honest_.

Little John groaned again and Robin rushed to his side. The giant was in pain, but his fever had finally broken.

"Remind me to box Scarlet's ears when I'm better," Little John mumbled, as he placed a moist cloth over his eyes. Robin laughed quietly at the jest. He only wished that Marion could share in the laughter.

* * *

Alain of Mons gripped the ears of the two rabbits he had caught. He wanted a king's feast, but he could not find deer tonight. The Lady of Sherwood was his prisoner and venison would have been a fitting supper. His men made camp among the chestnuts and oaks surrounding Sherwood Forest; he could not persuade them to venture anywhere within the "haunted forest".

He heard his Flemish companion, Jacques, trample through the shrubs towards him.

"We have a problem at camp, Alain," he blurted, as he gasped for breath. He didn't want to spend more time than necessary in the evil woods.

Alain sighed. "Yes, yes, the wineskins are empty. When we bring the Hooded Man back to the sheriff, there'll be plenty of wine and mead."

"It's the lady," Jacques confessed. "Some of the men are upon her …" Alain dropped his rabbits, drew his sword and bounded into their camp in a rage. He did not expect to see what he did.

Marion's sleeve was torn, but one of the Scotsmen lay wounded on the ground – his leg was gashed. One of the Celts grappled with her from behind, but she elbowed him in the ribs and kicked him in the groin. A Dane lunged at her, but she punched him with one hand while drawing his sword from its scabbard with the other. She held the sword like a soldier, ready to parry any blow. The cohort backed away nervously, wary that the next attacker would find a sword in his belly.

The woman was terrified, but calm. Alain had heard the stories of Sherwood's outlaws: the giant, the priest, the madman, the miller's son, the infidel warrior, the one called Loxley (the sheriff had claimed to have killed him) and the nobleman-turned-outlaw. It was the tales about the Maid of Sherwood that he found far-fetched: a woman who fought like a man and strung a bow like an archer. Marion of Leaford was the legend come to life.

Two of Alain's Welsh archers notched arrows into their bows, but Jacques held them back.

"Enough of this!" Alain growled. He kicked the Dane on the ground angrily, turned around and punched the Celt who had attacked Marion. The Scot with the cut on his leg stood up slowly, leaning onto a tree trunk. Alain grabbed the man, who had been assigned to guard Marion.

"Are you hard of hearing?" Alain said. "I gave my word that Marion is not to be molested."

The Scot leered at Marion, who still had her sword drawn. "The girl is no lady. She's just the outlaw's wench. We just wanted to see if she was a maid."

Alain took off his gauntlet with the Flemish coat of arms and smacked him loudly across the face with it. The Scot spat gobs of blood onto the ground. He was a foul-looking man with missing teeth who joined the English cause for plunder, not glory. "Havin' that crest on your glove don't make you our lord," he said. "We came to Nottingham with a score of men, promised gold and royal favour. Now, we got less than a dozen – and for what?" The Dane and the Celt who had harassed Marion grunted in agreement.

Jacques placed his hand on his sword hilt, but Alain held his hand up. "Those of you who stand with me will have more gold than what you'll find in Normandy," he bellowed, "when we deliver the Hooded Man to the sheriff. Marion is not to be touched until then. If my terms are unpalatable, take your leave now. I will say no more." Alain rested his hand on his own sword hilt, which implied that the rebels would answer to him.

The foul Scotsman picked up his broadsword, sneering at the Flemish knight. "I'll take my chances with the English dogs in France." He limped angrily out of camp, heading south. The Dane and the Celt soon followed.

Alain turned to Marion, who still had the sword in her hand. He didn't look at her as he retrieved his rabbits and began to skin them with his dagger. "Come to the fire, my lady of Sherwood," he said. "Have some stew. And you can put that sword down. My Welsh archers will skewer you where you stand, if I wish it."

Marion realized that she had no other option. Marion yielded the sword to Alain, which prompted Jacques and the Welshmen to lower their guard at last. She warmed herself by the fire and glanced at the elaborate crest on one of Alain's gauntlets.

"You served the Count of Flanders," she said. "My father spoke well of Baldwin and the Countess Marie. Does your vow to them mean nothing to you, that you would forsake your honour for King John's gold?"

Alain did not answer for several minutes as he gutted the rabbits and chopped meat. When the stew was brewing, he sat on the ground beside Marion. "I consider myself a knight of Flanders, even now. I have sworn my service to the Count and Countess, but one of their vassals accused me of murder when my lord was away from the castle on a campaign. I fear the traitor still holds influence in the Flemish court and means to propose a separate peace with Philip Augustus, God curse his soul! Don't pass judgment on me, my lady, while you shame your father's own name with these woodland thieves."

Marion face flushed red with indignation. "We steal from those who have already stolen from the people of Sherwood. We are giving back what belongs to them. You know nothing about me, or of Robin Hood."

Alain thought of Marion's skirmish with the Scotsman. His men feared her because the day's skirmish had proven that the outlaws of Robin Hood were every bit as lethal as their legend. "On the contrary, Marion," he said. "Your encounter with the ugly Scot merely confirmed the tavern tales I have heard in Flanders, Anjou and Brittany. I have heard much about your exploits against the sheriff, the English king and the devil's cult in Ravenscar." He regretted the loss of three capable fighting men – he would miss their swords – but he had given his word to protect Marion's honour. And, with fewer men to pay, it would mean more gold for those who remained. "I mean to collect what the sheriff has promised to me for Robin Hood's capture," he continued, "despite the spirits in these woods. You will come to no harm tonight, but do not try to escape. I am merciful; my archers are not." He gave Marion a hearty bowl of stew, while he tore into a loaf of bread. The men snickered as the Lady of Sherwood slurped the meal ravenously like a commoner. With her rough-spun dress and simple boots, she hardly seemed like a crusader's highborn daughter. _But she surely fights like one_, Alain thought.

With the departure of the malcontents, Alain's cohort now numbered less than a dozen. Marion observed that about half of them – including his lieutenant Jacques and the Welsh archers – showed more deference to Alain. The remaining Scots, Danes and Celts did as they were told without much enthusiasm: the promise of gold alone bound them to Alain. She assumed that the men most loyal to the renegade knight were either Flemish kinsmen, or paid better than the other mercenaries. The Welshmen were likely better paid, since their archery skills were more useful.

As she slept by the fire, Marion silently called upon the gods: the Christian one who would protect her virtue and her soul, and the ancient ones of the forest who would defend Robin and her friends against Alain and the sheriff's schemes.

_May the Lord guide you, Robin_, she prayed. _And may Herne protect you tomorrow_.


	14. CH 14

As the sun began to set, Alice and the castle's servants set the table for the sheriff's dinner. The sheriff, his temporary steward Walter and his men had spent the better part of the week scouring the countryside for food and supplies. The village chieftain of Rufford and a dozen villagers had descended upon a tax collector two days ago, nearly beating him to death. In a fury, the sheriff had marched scores of Nottingham soldiers into Rufford this morning to put down the rebellion. Walter was ordered to hang the chieftain and several ringleaders, but the village itself was spared.

The dinner wasn't much: two small hens, a block of stale cheese and a bowl of berries. At least the bread was fresh, the sheriff muttered. He was also upset that his brother, Lord Abbot Hugo, arrived unannounced this afternoon from Canterbury. The abbot ravenously tore into the juiciest of the hens with his fingers. Walter seemed to be appalled at Hugo's lack of table manners, but the sheriff suspected his steward had other things on his mind.

"Don't mind my brother, Walter," the sheriff said. "He's been traveling on horseback the entire day and has worked up an ungodly appetite."

Hugo gnawed at a chicken leg, picking out some meat from between his teeth. "I'm famished, dear brother."

"Yes, of course," the sheriff sighed, as he held out his goblet for Alice to fill with wine.

Walter ate a piece of cheese, but he shoved the rest of the block away.

"Why so glum, Walter?" the sheriff asked. "You saw what they did to the tax collector! The man's lucky to be alive, though he'll never walk properly again. The chieftain and the rabble rousers had to be hanged. The village is fortunate that I chose not to raze it to the ground!"

"You were most merciful, brother," Hugo said. He tugged the bowl of berries towards him, anticipating that Walter was about to claim them.

"You see, Hugo," the sheriff began, "Walter is a most capable soldier, but he seems to possess an unfortunate trait that seems to afflict the children of crusaders."

"And what trait would that be?" Hugo said.

"A conscience," the sheriff said. "Oh, don't be upset, Walter. If Gisburne were in your place, he'd have insisted that I burn the village to the ground. Then, we'd have half a dozen revolts to quell throughout the shire!"

"You're right, my lord," Walter said reluctantly, "we can't have people defying the King's authority. It disrupts the order of things."

"Well put, Walter," the sheriff beamed. His mood changed as soon as he saw Hugo devour what was left of the cheese. "I suppose you're not here merely to eat what is left of my pantry," he said angrily.

"I spoke with the Templar Master at Lincoln recently," the abbot said. The mention of the word 'Templar' caused the sheriff to shudder. "He informs me that Pope Innocent desires a new campaign against the infidels."

"God's teeth, Hugo," the sheriff said, "are you here to milk my coffers to fund another disastrous crusade in the Holy Land?"

"It's only a matter of time, my dear brother," Hugo said, "when the Holy Church will call upon her sons to take up the cross against Saladin's heirs." He glanced at Walter and seized upon a piece of bread.

The bells of the chapel began to ring, summoning the castle servants and soldiers to Vespers. Alice bowed hastily towards the sheriff and Abbot Hugo. "Beggin' your pardon, my lords, but it is time for the evening prayers. Might I be excused?"

"Go on, girl," the sheriff waved his hand casually.

"I should like to go to Vespers as well, my lords," Walter said. He abruptly stood up and bowed awkwardly.

When the servants had left, the sheriff turned towards his brother. "You'll not get one penny from me, not while King John marches around Normandy! The armies must be fed. The Pope's glorious crusade will have to wait until I receive word of His Majesty's progress in France."

"I'm not here to collect money – yet," Hugo said. "The Archbishop of Canterbury is ill. Hubert Walter is dying."

The sheriff took one look at what was left of the chicken and pushed it away in disgust. "I'm aware of that. Rome will appoint a suitable replacement when he dies."

"There's talk King John will want to choose his own candidate for archbishop," Hugo said nervously. "He would be defying the Pope, dear brother …"

The sheriff considered the implications. "As if His Majesty doesn't have enough troubles to deal with! This sort of thing will give Philip Augustus yet another reason to make war with England."

"Precisely," Hugo said. "The longer the king stays in France, the worse it will get."

The sheriff picked at a slice of cheese. "I suppose you should be going to the chapel now. You are giving Holy Communion after Vespers, are you not?" The abbot scowled at his brother, but held his tongue.

"Oh, one other thing," the sheriff said. "Walter has served me well these past few weeks, but I suspect that he dislikes the butcher's work I will be expecting of him. If I were to petition the king to confer a knighthood upon him – would that seem a suitable reward? This way, he could eventually find service with another lord more in keeping with his irritating morals."

"I suppose so," Hugo said. "He seems to have the makings of a knight." As Hugo ascended the stairs to the chapel, an idea formed in his head. He smiled malevolently.

Later, Hugo distributed the hosts to the worshippers after the evening service.

"_Corpus Christi_," Hugo said, bored at having to say Mass after dinner.

"Amen," Alice said as she took the wafer into her mouth. When the service was over, the servants and soldiers returned to their duties. Walter remained and knelt before the chapel cross.

"Take as long as you wish, my son," Hugo said benevolently. "I can see that you take your faith seriously."

"I fear that I may be losing my faith, my lord," Walter admitted. "Forgive me, my lord, I spoke hastily. I should be returning to the barracks to inspect the guard." He was about to leave the chapel when Hugo grasped his arm.

"Something troubles you, Walter," Hugo said. "Please, speak freely."

"Have you any news?" Walter said hurriedly. "News from Palestine?"

Hugo smiled. "The heathens still hold Jerusalem, though the great citadels of Syria are still in Christian hands. Alas, I fear there may not be enough pious men to keep the Holy Land for Christ."

"Is it true – that there will be another crusade?" Walter asked.

"It is inevitable," Hugo said. "Come, my son, I have a flask of the abbey's best wine. If you wish, I can tell you more of what the Templar Master told me of their recent exploits in Palestine." Walter seemed hesitant, but Hugo persisted. "I sense that God has brought us together for a common purpose."

Hugo snickered. He would leave Nottingham without gold for the Crusades, but he would not leave empty-handed. The Church would favour an abbot who sponsored a crusader.

_You are right, dear brother_, he said to himself. _Walter would make a suitable knight_.

* * *

The morning's sunlight beckoned through the thinning forest canopy. A few trees marked Sherwood's farthest edge as the outlaws approached the rocky outcrop. _The Wheel of Five Sisters_, where the brigands would exchange Marion for Robin, encircled the hill ahead.

Scarlet winced as he touched his sore head. Little John had boxed Scarlet and Robin's heads together at dawn after they had another bout of pointless bickering. Much had returned from tracking the mercenaries late last night and reported that Marion was well. The wounded mercenaries had been left to mend – or die of their wounds – at Wickham. Alain's party now numbered only eight or nine men who were fit to fight.

"You didn't have to box my head, too!" Robin said.

"The both of you are lucky that my leg hasn't fully healed," Little John replied. "Once we get Marion safe and sound, we can deal with Alain and his men on their way to Nottingham. It's a good plan, and there's no need to change it." Alain would not dare travel directly through Sherwood Forest, but he would likely attempt to take one of the lesser roads surrounding the forest. The outlaws hoped that the mercenaries were unfamiliar with those roads, since any road they chose would have to pass near the forest edge sometime during their journey.

"What if it's a trap, Robin?" Much asked.

"I don't think it is," Robin said. "Alain and his men can't claim their reward if I'm dead." He stopped as they approached the edge of the tree line. Nasir had scouted the area earlier and found nothing suspicious. The Saracen and Tuck strung their bows and took up flanking positions behind the trees while Robin removed his bow, quiver and dagger.

He unbuckled his scabbard, drew Albion halfway out and slid it back once again. "They must not get Albion," he said. He turned to Scarlet and gave the sword to him. "It must not fall into their hands, whatever happens. Keep it safe, Will."

Scarlet held the scabbard reverently. "They won't get near it, Robin." He was honoured that Robin would entrust the sword to him, but he didn't know what else to say.

"If it's a trap …" Robin began.

"We leave none alive," Scarlet said. "You have my word on that. May Herne protect you."

"God be with you, Robin," Tuck said, as Robin slowly ascended the hill. The old Druid circle of five stones towered above him.

When he entered the stone circle, the trample of hoof beats echoed in the distance. A lone horse appeared on the horizon. One of Alain's men led the horse by its reins. Marion, whose hands were bound, was seated atop the horse. The Welsh archers soon followed, with their arrows notched into their longbows. They occupied the high ground. Robin grimaced; the archers had a commanding view of the meadow and could fire a deadly volley of arrows upon any attacker below. They stopped a few yards from the _Five Sisters_.

Alain appeared from behind the largest of the Druid stones. "I see that you are alone, outlaw," Alain said. He signaled his men to bring Marion to him. "Marion of Leaford has not been molested." Robin saw the tear on her sleeve, but she seemed to be in good health.

"Let her go," Robin said firmly.

"You can demand nothing from me," Alain replied. "I have kept my word. Now, keep yours."

One of the Flemish mercenaries untied Marion's wrist and shoved her roughly towards Robin. She quickly embraced Robin.

"The Flemish men and the archers are most loyal to him, Robin," Marion whispered in his ear. "The rest of them want only money. Three of them have already abandoned him last night." A Dane with a spiked helmet dragged Robin away from her.

Alain bowed to Marion. "My lady of Sherwood, it was an honour to share a dinner with you." His men laughed at the display. Marion said nothing and quickly scrambled down the hill towards the forest.

Alain's men bound Robin's hands with rope and sat him on the horse.

"The sheriff is using you, Alain," Robin said.

The Flemish knight chortled. "Of course he is, you fool! And I am using him. He will make me and my cohort rich men."

"Don't be the sheriff's puppet," Robin said. "What good is money when your own people in Flanders suffer because of the French wars! What of your vow to Count Baldwin? Does your honour mean nothing now?"

"I tire of his preaching," Alain sniffed and waved his hand. His men gagged Robin and led him away. He studied the embroided black and yellow crest of Flanders on his right gauntlet. Alain had sworn an oath to defend the Count and Countess of Flanders, but treachery had driven him to a life of ransom and pillage. _Am I a pirate – or a knight?_ he asked himself.

He consoled himself with the thought that the 'King of Sherwood' would give him a bounty of riches. Gold should make it easier for him to accept his lost honour – even if it failed to restore it. Alain mounted his horse and led his mercenaries away from Sherwood and towards one of the lesser roads that skirted the haunted woods.

"This forest is cursed," said Alain's lieutenant, Jacques. He spurred his horse into a trot. "I'm glad these woods are at our backs, at long last."

The mercenaries were unaware that Robin's band shadowed them: they would become the spirits of legend that would wreak havoc on those who dared to violate their woodland kingdom and capture Herne's Son. Scarlet buckled the scabbard to his waist. He raced ahead of the others, jumping over rotten logs and through the tangled undergrowth. Alain of Mons had handed them a rare defeat; the mercenary would not be given another chance.

Albion would have its revenge.


	15. CH 15

Gisburne and the English army trudged through Norman woodlands and valleys for several weeks. Mercenary raiders – under French pay – continued to harass the lengthening baggage train. Only yesterday, two dozen raiders had captured a score of bollocks. The English supply lines stretched longer with each passing day and still there was no sign of King John's forces. The army's strength continued to thin because soldiers had to garrison the towers and fortified towns along the route. The fear of constant ambush had already begun to sap at the morale of the troops. There were rumours that the king had lifted the siege of Mirebeau and captured the pretender to the throne, Arthur of Brittany.

Gisburne pushed his concerns aside. This morning promised to be another unnerving march across hostile roads. A runner, whose surcoat bore the crest of the Earl of Chester, sprinted towards him.

"Report," Gisburne said. The runner was out of breath and stooped over to catch his breath.

"I gave you an order!" Gisburne barked.

"For God's sake, man, let him recover," the Earl of Huntingdon replied. "Take your time, lad."

The soldier scowled at Gisburne briefly. "Our scouts report a strong force of mounted Frenchmen and men-at-arms will be upon us within the hour."

"Raiders and sell-swords," Gisburne scoffed, waving his hand dismissively. "A screen of men-at-arms, knights and a dozen crossbows should see them off –"

"No, not raiders, my lord," the soldier interrupted, "but well-armed French knights, nearly one hundred of them!"

"They could be the rearguard of Philip's army," Huntingdon said, "but why are they rushing into a confrontation? Surely they realize that we outnumber their rearguard ten-to-one!"

"Perhaps it's a trap, my lord," Gisburne said. "The French want us to chase them."

"My lords of Chester and Lincoln request that you send your men forward to deal with the rabble," the soldier said impertinently.

"Tell your master that our men shall advance presently," Huntingdon said as politely as he could manage. When the runner was out of earshot, the earl slapped his gauntlet angrily against his leg.

"I don't like this," Gisburne said. "Our supply lines are thin enough as it is!"

"I know," Huntingdon said, "but the earls have lost scores of men over the past few weeks to raiders. The fortified town of Lisieux is two days' march. Once we're behind her walls, we can secure our position and await His Majesty's return from Poitou."

"The men are getting restless, my lord," Gisburne said.

"Don't you think I know that, Sir Guy?" Huntingdon replied. "Take your pikemen forward and I'll send forty of my knights with you."

Gisburne nodded. "Forty. That's generous of you, my lord."

"Generous?" Huntingdon said. "It's practical. I don't want Chester and Lincoln's band of titled idiots to botch things up! Finish off the rearguard, and then report back to the column. The army is vulnerable in the open. We must make it to Lisieux in two days without delay! We don't have time to go off on pointless raids for plunder."

"Very good, my lord," Gisburne said. He turned to his sergeant, Wolfric. "Our pikemen will advance to the head of the column." Behind him, two score of Huntingdon's knights had already fallen out of the column and trotted behind the pikemen.

"You're there on my authority, Gisburne," Huntingdon said. "You're to see the French off, nothing more."

"Aye, my lord," Gisburne said.

Minutes later, Gisburne and his cohort arrived at the head of the column. In the distance, he could hear the faint clash of steel and the war cries of the French knights. He peered at the badges on the surcoats of the English knights: they were Lincoln's household knights.

"Those reckless fools!" Gisburne said. "They didn't even bother to wait for us. Sergeant! Form the pikemen in four ranks!"

Wolfric barked and cursed at the men, who quickly formed a block four ranks deep. They marched towards the sounds of battle, with two score of Huntingdon's knights on their flanks.

The sounds grew louder and when they arrived, they found themselves in a fierce melee. Dozens of Lincoln's knights were slain, some with missing arms and legs. One of their mounts neighed bleakly, blood pulsating from a gash in its neck. A few French knights were killed, but it was a lopsided battle. Wounded men streamed towards Gisburne's men, but the pikemen were ordered to drive them off.

The captain of the French rearguard, draped in the blue fleur-de-lis coat of arms of Philip of France, slashed his sword into the neck of a Lincoln knight and steered his war horse towards Gisburne's cohort. He waved his sword with a flourish and pointed it towards Gisburne.

"_Pour le Roi de la France!_" the French roared. At once, the French knights formed one long line and trotted forwards. Gisburne drew his sword. "Pikemen will advance!" The pikemen advanced in one block, forming a fearsome hedge of steel. The French line galloped relentlessly down the road, their lances dipping, the knights smelling another easy victory against the English.

Then the line wavered. Their war horses would not rush headlong into the hedge of pointed English steel. The French knights, frustrated at their horses, tried in vain to spur them on. Some knights tried to charge the pikemen in groups of two and three, but the Huntingdon knights quickly slaughtered them. The French line was now in disarray, having lost the momentum of the first charge. The French captain barked at his men to reform the line for another charge.

Gisburne nodded towards the Huntingdon knights. "Finish them off! Now, before they can regroup!" The Huntingdon knights let out their war cries and charged the faltering French line. Their war horses crashed into the disoriented French knights, steel against steel. The French captain tried to rally his men, but one of Huntingdon's knights swung a battle axe towards him. The axe bit into his chest plate and the French captain winced. He drew his sword and slashed at his opponent's arm. But, it was an awkward angle and the captain fell from his horse when he swerved away from another knight's glancing blow.

"Wolfric!" Gisburne said. "Take a dozen men. I want the French captain alive!" Wolfric and his party broke formation and joined the bloody melee. Some bent over the corpses of the French knights to rifle their pockets and purses, but the sergeant quickly barked at them to advance.

The pikemen quickly surrounded the fallen French captain, who continued to curse at them. The French survivors galloped away, chased by some of Huntingdon's knights. A group of Chester and Lincoln's men had broken away from the main column to plunder the bodies of the dead French knights. The skirmish lasted all of fifteen minutes, and Gisburne had a prisoner from Philip's army.

"Surrender your sword, monsieur," Gisburne snarled. The French captain thought of lunging at this English knight, dying for glory, but he noticed that Gisburne's sword was of much better quality.

"I will be accorded treatment befitting my rank?" the captain said. "I expect that I will, because I am Charles of Anjou, from the court of Philip of France."

Gisburne rolled his eyes. "Yes, you shall." The captain shrugged and surrendered his weapon. A few men-at-arms escorted the prisoner to the rear of the column. All around him he saw scorched fields, long-ago plundered churches and mud. Mud stuck onto his boots, clung to his cloak, caked the hooves of his charger – the dirt was everywhere. There was nothing glorious on this march. Hunger and damp weather stalked his every step.

"God curse this land," he swore. A few yards away, a few of the king's soldiers began to plunder the bodies of the fallen French knights. Gisburne knew that he should remain with the main column and await further orders. Some of the looters found silver coins on the bodies.

"I must have something for my troubles," he muttered. He dismounted and angrily shoved aside one of the looters. He began to poke through the saddlebags of one of the dead Frenchmen. He was unaware that the Earl of Huntingdon and his knights had advanced nearby.

"Look at those looters, my lord," the earl's green-cloaked captain said. "They must be Chester or Lincoln's men!" Two of the soldiers began to squabble over a dirty cloak. "They're no better than cutpurses and brigands."

"Yes, Sir Roger, "Huntingdon said. One of the looters had fair hair, new armour and was recently appointed captain of a troop of pikemen. "One of them is mine, unfortunately." Gisburne looked over his shoulder and spotted the earl and his knights.

Huntingdon wanted to be angry at him. He wanted to put Sir Guy in his place, to shame him in front of the other knights. He thought the campaign had forced the petulant man to grow up, but Gisburne still behaved like the sheriff's creature.

The earl was disappointed.

Gisburne turned away and hung his head in embarrassment. The Earl of Huntingdon had appreciated his efforts in leading the pikemen and had even praised his choice of Wolfric the Smith as his sergeant. The earl often listened to Gisburne's military advice, and sometimes he acted on it. It was far more than Gisburne had expected on this campaign – and nothing like the abuse the sheriff had hurled at him in Nottingham.

Gisburne returned what little loot he found. There were no valuables here – no jewels, no coins – only a loaf of rancid bread and a tin goblet. _Glory in Normandy_, Gisburne scoffed, _what the devil was I thinking?_

* * *

Perched atop a large oak tree, Much stared at the bend in the road to his south. Although Scarlet and Nasir had shadowed the mercenaries, Much hoped that he could still spot Robin and the brigands before they could. He fiddled with an oak leaf. Marion was sure that Alain and the mercenaries would not dare take the main road through Sherwood, although it was the faster route to Nottingham. Many rich travelers made that same mistake – and they arrived in Nottingham much poorer. The nobles and tax collectors had become wiser since the Hooded Man claimed Sherwood and chose to take the lesser road, which skirted the forest's edge. The journey took longer, but it was open ground and the travelers assumed that the outlaws preferred the shelter of Sherwood's trees. He waited for the bird call that would warn him of the mercenaries' arrival.

Several yards beyond the large oak, where the road must pass close to Sherwood, Marion sat patiently on a log. Little John sat beside her and tested the bowstrings of their longbows.

"Don't do anything foolish, Little John," Marion said. "You're still hurt. Stay in the trees." She noticed that his quarterstaff was also beside him. He can be as stubborn as Will sometimes, she thought.

Little John sighed. "I know the plan. When Much gets the signal, we'll be ready."

"Good," she said. She nodded, as if to convince herself that the plan will work. "Good."

"Sherwood's ours," Little John said, "This Alain fellow is used to fighting on open ground with horses and men-at-arms. He was lucky last time – his luck's got to run out. Scarlet used to be a soldier: he knows how they think and how they fight. We'll be feasting on venison by sunset, you'll see."

"We haven't had venison in weeks!" Marion lamented. She paced along the road nervously. "I hope Nasir and Will haven't lost sight of the land pirates. Does Much know the signal? It's two bird calls. Sometimes he forgets when he's scared."

"We'll rescue Robin," Little John said. "We've done ambushes before. This one's no different. There's nothing to worry about." He handed her one of the longbows. "Here, you can take this one."

Her hands trembled as she held the longbow. "Why am I so nervous, John? We've done this before. They have to go down this road. If I wasn't so stupid by the river, they wouldn't have caught me. And Robin wouldn't be their prisoner!"

"Don't be so hard on yourself, lass," Little John said. "Alain was lucky. He had more men, horses and a plan. We were overconfident then. It won't happen again." Marion fell silent and for several minutes there was only the sound of the wind and a crow cawing in the distance.

"You care for Robin," Little John stated.

Marion paused. "Of course I do. The way I care for Much, Tuck and the rest of you."

"No," Little John smirked. "Not like the rest of us. You don't realize how much Robin relies on you – for your strength. When Loxley died, we lost our way. And after that huge fight, I never thought we'd see each other again. The sheriff won and that was it. We had no hope. I can't imagine how Robin must have felt to be handed that responsibility: to leave an earldom and become the protector of Sherwood, Herne's Son and guardian of Albion, one of the Seven Swords of Wayland."

"It must have been terrifying," Marion acknowledged. "Sometimes I wonder how we persevered till now, with all the greedy nobles and people suffering around us."

"It's because of you, Marion," Little John said. "You might be Lady Wolfshead in the court of King John, but in this forest you're the Lady of Sherwood. No king has the power to take that away from you. Each one of us – Nasir, Will, me and the others – owes you everything. Our loyalty … and our lives if need be. You kept Albion safe, when we had all but given up. You kept the candle alight in the darkness."

Marion patted Little John on the arm in gratitude. Two bird calls suddenly interrupted them, then Much scampered out of the woods.

"The mercenaries are coming!" Much said.

"Go on ahead, Much," Marion said, "and meet up with Tuck. You know what to do."

"Don't worry," Much replied, "the bandits won't know what's coming."

Marion and Little John began to notch arrows into their longbows. Nasir and Scarlet would already be stalking Alain's band from behind.

Little John winced as he shifted his weight off his injured leg.

"Now, don't get into the melee, John," Marion ordered, as she crouched behind a tree trunk. Little John had no time to reply because the tramping of hoofbeats echoed down the road.

Alain of Mons, the Flemish knight and mercenary captain, rode ahead of the band along with two horsemen. Robin was bound by the wrists atop another horse in the centre of the cohort. Their band numbered now less than a dozen men.

Ahead of them, Tuck began to sing out: "Alms for the poor. Spare some alms for the poor." Tuck wore a monk's habit and hid his face. He was several yards away and none of the mercenaries recognized him beneath the hood.

Jacques, Alain's lieutenant, drew his sword from his scabbard. "Out of the way, priest!" Tuck scurried off the road and disappeared into the woods.

Alain eyed the road ahead suspiciously. "Enough of this dawdling! We should make haste for Nottingham Castle at once! The sooner we're there, the sooner we can claim our gold." They spurred their horses faster.

"Now!" Marion said. Tuck and Much lifted up a rope that was buried on the road, entangling the lead horsemen. Alain and his companions toppled onto the ground as their horses galloped away. An arrow struck one of the Welsh archers in the chest, killing him instantly. Another arrow skewered the arm of another archer, who whimpered in agony. Robin kicked the chin of one of his guards – a wild-looking Celt with a small helmet – and leapt off the horse. He looked for Will, but he and Nasir were already clashing swords with a pair of Danes a few yards behind him.

"Where's the third archer?" Much asked, as he quickly sawed into the rope around Robin's wrists with a dagger. "Did we kill 'em all?" On the other side of the road, they spotted a Welshman with a quiver full of arrows. Tuck set loose an arrow, but it thudded harmlessly into a tree trunk. The archer slipped into the woods. "Lord Almighty," Tuck sighed, "he's gone to ground. He must be the smartest of the bunch."

The remaining mercenaries formed a ragged line to face their attackers. Will and Nasir were still fighting the Danes down the road, so Robin could only count on Marion, Tuck, Much and the limping Little John.

Alain snarled. "I'll claim my reward yet, wolfshead!"

"You'll have to go through us first, friend," Little John bellowed. He had tossed his longbow aside and brandished his quarterstaff, ignoring Marion's disapproving glance. He stood behind Robin, hoping that Alain's men didn't notice his injured leg. Despite John's bravado, Robin knew they were outnumbered. The last Welsh archer had disappeared in the trees. If they didn't flush him out, the Welshman could pick them off one by one with his longbow.

Alain flourished his sword in the air expertly. "I've fought the armies of dukes and princes, boy. Whether you want to arrive in Nottingham with your head still attached to your body is up to you."

"You're in my domain now," Robin said, "so let's finish this." He drew his sword, borrowed from one of the fallen mercenaries. The clang of steel echoed down the road, where Will and Nasir's battle with the Danes continued. He ignored the sounds and concentrated on the Flemish knight.

Robin realized that, if he failed, death would be his reward: here on the road or later in Nottingham. Neither magic nor fate would decide this day – skill and courage would determine the master of Sherwood.

With a guttural roar, Robin lunged at Alain. The ringing of blade against blade scattered the birds above the forest canopy …


	16. CH 16 NEW!

Nasir parried a wild sword stroke from one of the Danes. The brute was not skilled, all clumsiness and aggression. There was clanging of steel and cries of pain a few yards ahead, where Robin and the others had ambushed Alain of Mons' men. Without warning, an arrow zipped past his ear and thudded into a tree trunk behind him.

Will brandished Albion – placed in his safekeeping – and felt invincible. Its balance was perfect and the hilt was strong. It was a warrior's weapon.

_Not just a soldier's weapon_, he thought. _It's a sword fit for kings._

His opponent, a grim-looking Dane with matted long blond hair, checked one of Will's lunges and elbowed him in the abdomen. Will bowled over and when the Dane thrust his sword downward, he swung Albion and cut into the mercenary's forearm. Will plunged his concealed dagger into the Dane's chest.

"I don't like mercenaries," Will muttered as an oath, retrieving his dagger from the dead man. He turned to outflank Nasir's opponent, but the Saracen had already disarmed the Dane. The mercenary wisely raised his hands to yield.

"I should kill you now, but that is not my way," Nasir said in Arabic. "It is Allah's will."

"Kill him, Nasir," Will said.

Nasir shook his head. "He is unequal to me. He accepts his defeat." He pointed south to the road away from Nottingham. "Go now and you leave in peace. Never return." The Dane clasped both hands in gratitude and fled away from the forest.

"The assassin showin' mercy?" Will smirked. "Never thought I'd see the day." Nasir said nothing, but nodded towards the arrow embedded in the trunk above.

"The Welsh archers," Will said. "I hate them about as much as land pirates right now." They dashed up the dirt road to the main melee. There were several bodies already on the ground, among them the two Welsh archers, one still wailing in pain with an arrow shaft embedded in his forearm. When they arrived, Alain and half a dozen Flemish mercenaries were entangled in a fierce battle with Robin, Marion and the others.

"Nasir!" Tuck hollered above the clash of steel. "One of the Welshmen's gone to ground. Careful, he's the smart one." Nasir quickly sprinted into the undergrowth with daggers in hand.

"It seems we have reinforcements, Alain," Robin said. Alain growled and lunged at him again. His lieutenant, Jacques, faced both Much and Tuck and and kept them at bay.

"I've fought the cream of French chivalry, priest," Jacques said. "You should know your betters." Much tried to notch an arrow into his bow, but the Flemish had closed quarters between them. He tripped over the boot of one of the dead pirates and fell onto his back. He saw a rock by his head, grabbed it and flung it toward Jacques. It smacked into his temple and he toppled over. Tuck and Much turned towards the surviving pirates.

Little John whirled his quarterstaff wildly, forcing Alain's men to back away. He had hoped to give enough distance for Marion and the others to use their arrows. But the effort put added weight onto his injured leg and he groaned in pain. One of Alain's men noticed this and jabbed the hilt of his sword into the leg. This enraged John, who shoved the butt of his staff into the man's face. Including Alain, there were now only four opponents who could still fight.

There was a commotion in the woods. Nasir briskly walked towards the clearing, hauling the remaining Welsh archer by his collar. "He hid – I found him," he said.

Robin sensed that Alain's men were wavering. "Men of Flanders," Robin announced. It was a booming voice, one he would have used to address the guards of Huntingdon Castle. "We have you surrounded and outnumbered. Your so-called friends have fled or are dead in these woods. You need not suffer their fate." Marion and Much had already drawn their longbows, their targets picked.

"Robin! Let me finish them off," Will said, but upon noticing that he was brandishing Albion, he returned it to its scabbard and picked up one of the fallen pirates' swords. Robin looked at him oddly. "It's too fine a sword for their like," Will shrugged.

"I will not yield to peasants and cast-offs," Alain said. His men hesitated, but they remained with swords drawn – prepared to fight to the death beside their master. They were soldiers of Flanders. "I will not be carved piecemeal on English soil like some butcher's scrapings. You do not give commands to me, as you have been disowned by your own father for your crimes."

"You're right," Robin said. "I have been stripped of title and land for my offenses against King John. But I still have my honour. No prince, no king can disown me of that." Marion, in that moment, saw Robert of Huntingdon claim his rightful mantle as Robin of Sherwood. She would always remember her husband, but this forest was the kingdom of Herne's Son.

"You bear the crest of the Count of Flanders, Alain of Mons," Robin continued. "Friar Tuck is a man of God. Renew your oaths to the House of Flanders and swear fealty to your Count. Return to Flanders, never to return to this shire – and you will have safe passage through Sherwood."

"I may be excommunicated by now," Tuck said under his breath. Little John elbowed him in the belly to silence him.

Alain glanced at the rampant black lion on a golden yellow field and recalled a life of devotion and duty. As one of the Count's knights, he would never cower before men like the Sheriff.

"King John and King Philip will shed the blood of thousands to prove their claim to lands that do not belong to them," Marion said. "I know that you are an honourable man, Alain. The sheriff is not. He will betray you at the first opportunity. Will you fight for a man like that – or for Count Baldwin, your liege lord?"

"With our share of gold, we could still go to Flanders as wealthy men," one of the men added.

"You were wronged at court, Alain," Robin said. "Right that wrong and reclaim your honour."

Jacques, Alain's lieutenant, was still groggy and had to lean against one of the Flemish. "I never liked that little man De Rainault," he said. "We were doing his bidding, yet he treated us like lepers." He grimaced at the thought of being banned from Nottingham Castle. They still held a sizable treasure, with so few men left.

What they lacked was respect. To a land pirate, that meant nothing. But to a knight of Flanders – it was everything.

_To die in these woods a criminal_, Alain thought. _Or die in Flanders, with a sword in hand and fighting with honour?_

Alain took off his gauntlet with the embroidered crest of Flanders and kissed it. "I will squander no more lives, not for the sheriff – or King John." He turned to his men. "You may have your leave if you wish, I will think no less of you. If you take your oaths with me this night, by God, we shall march to Flanders with our heads held high. With our share of Nottingham gold!" The Flemish soldiers cheered in unison, shouting: "Hail Baldwin, Count of Flanders!"

"I see now why your master chose you to defend these woodlands, outlaw," Alain said. "You may have given up an earldom, but you've not forsaken your nobility."

With dusk fast approaching, Tuck escorted the Flemish soldiers to a quiet clearing in the woods. In Latin, he intoned a prayer as each man knelt before his upright sword and uttered his oath of fealty to the Count of Flanders. They were pirates no more, with God and Herne as their witnesses. They would avoid Nottingham and travel east, across to France and beyond.

"What about this scum?" Will said, gesturing to the captive Welsh archer. "He ain't Flemish." His murderous gaze caused the archer to shudder.

"What say you, archer," Little John said, "to a life as an adventurer in Flanders? Fine ales, women and plenty of fighting."

"I owe nothing to their count," the archer said. He was a gangly young man and still stood defiantly. "But I owe King John even less."

"Swear never to return to this forest – under pain of death – and I grant you leave," Robin said. The archer nodded. He liked living.

"Where will you go?" Much asked the Welshman.

"Well I ain't fightin' for England," he replied, "so I'm going to Wales and fight for Llywelyn." There was talk King John was already marshalling his marcher lords to prepare his invasion of the country. He took his quiver from Nasir, scooped up his share of the mercenary treasure and slung his bow over his shoulder. He began to walk westward.

"He's going over to the Welsh?" Will said. "Normandy would've been safer." As an afterthought, he quickly returned Albion to Robin. "It's in better keeping with its master."

"Hail Robin, King of Sherwood, lord of squirrels and duke of oaks," Little John jested. "I'd kneel, but my leg's a mess, milord." Nasir bowed before Robin with a flourish. Robin rolled his eyes at the taunts. He punched Much in the arm as the miller's son tried to bow.

Marion sauntered up beside him. "You did well there, Robin."

"You helped," Robin said. Marion could have disarmed the lot of these pirates on her own, he thought. "I might have needed to kill them if they refused my offer."

"You showed them mercy," Marion said. "You could have given the order to slaughter every last one of them – you didn't. That's what separates you from De Rainault, Gisburne, the Norman barons, all of them."

"I'm just like them," Robin said, with a twinge of guilt. He had to assume lordly airs to extract his friends from what could have been a bloody melee. _It was a gamble_, he thought. _An arrogant gamble._

"No, Robin," Marion held his arm. "You're not like them. You hold no rank, but you are their better. Don't ever believe otherwise. You are Herne's Son. You defend the poor and oppressed, with no thought for glory or reward. This is why we follow you. We are yours to command."

"I don't think anyone can command Marion of Leaford," Robin said with a wink. She smiled, then caught up with Much and Tuck.

"Watch yourself, King of Sherwood," Will said. He had caught up with Robin, unseen. "That sword might protect your body, but not your heart …" Before Robin could protest, Will scurried ahead to join the others in their revelry.

_I want to hunt deer tomorrow_, Robin grinned. _Because only kings can eat venison._

* * *

Two weeks had passed and still the English army hadn't encountered the armies of King Philip of France. Philip was in Paris, some said, cowering behind his castle walls. Others claimed that Philip had already taken the English stronghold built by Richard the Lionheart, Chateau-Gaillard, and the English cause was all but lost.

Gisburne shrugged, trotting his charger a few yards away from foot soldiers and mounted knights. The knights, bearing the green surcoats of Huntingdon, shared a joke and laughed. They were all comrades-in-arms – in theory – but few tried to befriend him. He had heard the rumours: Guy of Gisburne was a failed knight from Nottingham who had been unable to subdue a band of peasant misfits in Sherwood Forest. The outlandish tales of Robin Hood, Marion, the giant Little John and their outlaws filled the taverns and keeps of Normandy.

He became deaf to the whispers and glances. _I will make a name for myself_, he thought. _Someday_.

"Somehow," he muttered.

"Something amiss?" a voice said from behind him. Gisburne looked over his shoulder. It was the Earl of Huntingdon – the last person he had wanted to see now.

"It's nothing, milord," Gisburne said. "Any news from the scouting party?"

"They've yet to return," Huntingdon said, "but if the tavern gossip is to be believed, the King has rescued Eleanor of Aquitaine and captured Arthur the Pretender."

Gisburne said nothing and they remained silent for a few miles. Huntingdon had caught up and rode beside him.

"We should be upon our garrison at Lisieux within a day," Huntingdon said

"Good," Gisburne said. He was becoming irritated with the earl's attempts at small talk. The reality was that he was still ashamed that his commander saw him looting a dead French knight like a common soldier. Huntingdon's men – unlike those of the other barons and lords – were the most disciplined in King John's army. Gisburne saw it in their eyes. They would die for their king, if called upon. For their king – and for the Earl of Huntingdon. He envied the loyalty that such men inspired.

Gisburne was glad that his troop of pikemen was attached to Huntingdon's men. Despite this, he resented that his behaviour seemed to be always under scrutiny.

"Is something on your mind, milord?" Gisburne asked, with a hint of irritation in his voice.

"Why are you here?" Huntingdon said.

Gisburne stopped, reining in his horse. "I was given a summons in Nottingham. The king's army needed captains of skill and experience."

"Yes, yes, glory and honour in defense of the Angevin lands in France, etc.," Huntingdon said. "That's why we are all here, because the king commands it. But why are you here? There's talk of a new Crusade and an invasion of Wales. The king needs knights for other causes, too. Why here?"

"It was an opportunity," Gisburne said. "To better myself."

"And that sniveling sheriff of yours in Nottingham had nothing better to offer you?" Huntingdon said.

"No," Gisburne said. "Well, except this." He patted the hilt of his sword. Something about the way Gisburne referred to the sword caught the earl's attention. It never left the knight's side. Huntingdon had seen the sword before, when Gisburne was regaling his men with tales of past battles in France. The sword was well-crafted, balanced and with a razor's edge. It seemed to be a talisman to him, a good luck charm.

"And after Normandy?" Huntingdon continued. "What then?"

The question stumped Gisburne. He hadn't considered what he would do after the summer campaign. Stay in Normandy to captain a garrison? Join the king's forces in Poitou to defend His Majesty's ancestral rights?

_Return to Nottingham?_ Certainly not, he mused. His ambition (and pride) would not allow that.

"I don't know, milord," Gisburne began, "but maybe I could –" The galloping of horses, approaching from the east, interrupted him. The riders ahead of them wore crimson surcoats; the scouting party had returned.

Huntingdon spurred his horse ahead and questioned one of the scouts. A few minutes later, he returned.

"Any news from Lisieux?" Gisburne said.

Huntingdon glanced around. The vanguard of the army was still far behind them. "Lisieux has fallen. It flies the banner of Philip of France. Lionheart's old fortress fell three weeks ago."

Gisburne's jaw dropped. "And the French army?"

"Damn those tavern rumour-mongers!" Huntingdon said. "The French aren't retreating; they are advancing. The whole of Philip's army – 15,000-strong – will be upon us within two days." The odds were grim, since the English army in Normandy was not even one-fourth its size.

Huntingdon beckoned Gisburne over, pulling out a weathered map of the Norman coastline. "If we're overrun, nothing will stop Philip's march to the coast. We'll be cut off from our supplies and reinforcements on the Channel and the king –"

"—will be cut off from Normandy!" Gisburne exclaimed. The dangers of their predicament were all too real. Their pitiful army was now King John's rearguard. They must protect the English beachhead. Should they fail, the king would be trapped in Poitou and all of Normandy would fall to France.

Once, they had been conquerors bent on glory and plunder. They were now a ragged band of men on a frantic race to the Norman coast. Sergeants barked orders, while aides-de-camp scurried between commanders relaying the scouts' dreadful news.

Gisburne would learn the full story later than night in some squalid village tavern. Lisieux, the linchpin of the English defense, held against the onslaught of Philip's army for three days. Trapped and with no hope of relief, the English castellan surrendered the fortress two days ago.

While the other men drank, caroused and cavorted with the tavern's barmaids, Gisburne frowned. He had earlier declined an offer to dine in the great tent with the army's nobles: it was to be their last feast. _Glory, ha! It was a retreat, a scramble to the Channel._ He was even oblivious to the buxom serving wench on his knee. This was what defeat tasted like and he despised it.

"Why, you're not runnin' away, Sir Guy," the dark-haired wench said. "You're livin' to fight 'nother day, s'all."

"What would you know about war, girl?" Gisburne said, taking another sip of ale from his tankard.

"I've seen English, French 'n Flemish 'round these parts," the girl said. "Some say the Germans could come here someday. They all have the same story. 'But the King told us we'd be rich, get lands, cover us-selves in glory!' I'll tell you a secret, Sir Guy, shh!" She bent her head over to his ear, her voice barely a squeak. "It's all a fool's errand."

Gisburne pulled back. "What did you say?"

"It don't matter whose king you obey," she continued, "they'll promise you the world if you fight for them. And bleed for them. Only fools would believe them. But you're no fool, right, Sir Guy?"

Gisburne pushed the girl off his knee and tossed a few coins onto the table. He was no longer in the mood for her jests. He could have stayed in the tavern tonight, but his mood had soured. This was indeed a war only a fool could believe in. He stalked away from the warmth and amber glow of the tavern door, into the cold night.

In the camp, he saw his men shivering by the woods. Some used horse blankets to cover themselves up. A few of them no longer had boots. He could do little for them. Gisburne found a quiet grove of trees and wrapped his cloak around him to ward off the chill.

He was hungry and his teeth chattered. Sleep would not come easily this night. The sword – the sheriff's gift – lay beside him.

"Maybe you were right," he grunted, "my lord sheriff."

**NEXT:** The concluding chapters ...


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